<*■**• 


—  tBfi    S5*» 


WHEN  YOU  WER 

A  BOY 


Jfl 

.■■:■-■■.■■•■■,■. 

•■■•■'■■■■:;■■■■  '.■.::: 


•■'■•"  '  ■'■■'■■'"■  • 
•     ■■■•■■.■■■''..■■■••. 


EDWIN    L.SABIN 


w 


Id  faw  Ala     v-Uu^ 


Qsho- 1 


~~~ 


WHEN  YOU  WERE  A  BOY 


WHEN  YOU 
WERE  A  BOY 


BY 

EDWIN    L.    SABIN 

WITH  PICTURES  BY 

FREDERIC  DORR  STEELE 


Beto  gork 
THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 

33-37  East   17TH   Street,   Union  Square  (North) 


Copyright,  1905,  by  The  Baker  &  Taylor  Company 


Published  October,  1905 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


4f  OR  permission  to  republish  the  following 
3'  sketches  the  author  is  gratefully  indebted 
to  the  Century  Magazine,  the  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  Everybody's  Magazine,  and  the  National 
Magazine. 


M13739 


CONTENTS 

r 

PAGE 

I     TVze  Match  Game n 

II     Yon  at  School 39 

III  Chums 65 

IV  In  the  Arena 91 

V     The  Circus 11 1 

VI     When  Yon  Ran  Away  ....  135 

VII     Go  in1  Fishin?       155 

VIII     In  Society 179 

IX     Middleton's  Hill 195 

X     Goin?  Swimmin1 219 

XI     The  Sunday-School  Picnic       .     .  239 

XII     The  Old  Muzzle-Loader      .     .     .  257 

XIII  A  Boy's  Loves 277 

XIV  Noon 297 


THE    MATCH    GAME 


"YOU" 


WHEN  YOU   WERE   A   BOY 


THE  MATCH  GAME 


"our"  nine 
Billy  Lunt,  c 
Fat  Day,  p 
Hen  Schmidt,  ib 
Bob  Leslie,  2b 
Hod  O'Shea,  3b 
Chub  Thornbury,  ss 
Nixie  Kemp,  If 
Tom  Kemp,  rf 
"You,"  cf. 


We: 
They: 


5 
11 


9 
14 


"  THEIR  "  NINE 

Spunk  Carey,  c 
Doc  Kennedy,  p 
Screw  Major,  ib 
Ted  Watson,  2b 
Red  Conroy,  3b 
Slim  Harding,  ss 
Pete  Jones,  if 
Tug  McCormack,  rf 
Ollie  Hansen,  cf 

9       8-31 
9     i6  —  5° 


FAT  DAY  was  captain  and  pitcher.  He 
was  captain  because,  if  he  was  not,  he 
wouldn't  play,  and  inasmuch  as  he  owned  the 
ball,  this  would  have  been  disastrous;  and  he 
was  pitcher  because  he  was  captain. 

In  the  North  Stars  were  other  pitchers  — 
seven  of  them!  The  only  member  who  did 
not  aspire  to  pitch  was  Billy  Lunt,   and  as 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


catcher  he  occupied  a  place,   in   "takin'   'em 
off   the    bat,"   too   delightfully   hazardous   for 

him  to  surrender,  and  too 
painful  for  anybody  else 
to  covet. 

The  organization  of  the 
North  Stars  was  effected 
through  verbal  contracts 
somewhat  as  follows: 

"Say,  we  want  you  to  be 
in  our  nine." 

"All  right.  Will  you 
lemme  pitch?" 

"Naw;  Fat's  pitcher, 
'cause  he's  captain;  but 
you  can  play  first." 

"Pooh!  Fat  can't 
pitch — " 

"I  can,  too.     I  can  pitch  lots  better'n  you 

can,  anyhow."     (This  from  Fat  himself.) 

"W-well,  I'll  play  first,  then.  .  I  don't  care." 

Thus  an  adjustment  was  reached. 

A  proud  moment  for  you  was  it  when  your 

merits  as  a  ball-player  were  recognized,   and 

you  were  engaged  for  center-field.     Of  course, 

secretly  you  nourished   the   strong  conviction 

[12] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


that  you  were  cut  out  for  a  pitcher.  Next  to 
pitcher,  you  preferred  short-stop,  and  next  to 
short-stop,  first  base.  But  these  positions,  and 
pretty  much  everything,  in  fact,  had  been  pre- 
empted; so,  after  the  necessary  haggling,  you 
accepted  center-field. 

Speedily  the  Xorth  Star  make-up  was  com- 
plete, and  disappointed  applicants  —  those  too 
little,  too  big,  too  late,  or  not  good  enough  — 
were  busy  sneering  about  it. 

The  equipment  of  the  North  Star  Base-Ball 
Club  consisted  of  Fat's  "regular  league"  ball, 
six  bats  (owned  by  various  members,  and  in 
some  cases  exercising  no  small  influence  in  de- 
termining fitness  of  the  billy  lunt 
same  for  enlistment  as 
recruits),  and  four  uni- 
forms. 

Mother  made  your  uni- 
form. To-day  you  won- 
der how,  amidst  darning 
your  stockings  and  patch- 
ing your  trousers  and 
mending  your  waists,  she 
ever  found  time  in  which 


to  supply  you  with   the 

[13] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


additional    regalia   which,    according    to    your 
pursuits    of    the    hour,    day    after    day    you 

insistently  demanded.     But 
she  always  did. 

The  uniform  in  question 
was  composed  of  a  pair  of 
your  linen  knickerbockers 
with  a  red  tape  tacked 
along  the  outside  seam,  and 
a  huge  six-pointed  blue 
flannel  star,  each  point 
having  a  buttonhole  where- 
by it  was  attached  to  a 
button,  corresponding,  on 
the  breast  of  your  waist. 
And  was  there  a  cap,  or 
did  you  wear  the  faithful 
old  straw?  Fat  Day,  you 
recollect,  had  a  cap  upon  the  front  of  which  was 
lettered  his  rank  —  "Captain."  It  seems  as 
though  mother  made  you  a  cap,  as  well  as  the 
striped  trousers  and  breastplate.  The  cap  was 
furnished  with  a  tremendously  deep  vizor  of 
pasteboard,  and  was  formed  of  four  segments, 
two  white  and  two  blue,  meeting  in  the  center 
of  the  crown. 

[14] 


SPUNK  CAREY 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


All  in  all,  the  uniform  was  perfectly  satis- 
factory; it  was  distinctive,  and  was  surpassed 
by  none  of  the  other  three. 

Evidently  the  mothers  of  five  of  the  Xorth 
Stars  did  not  attend  to  business,  for  their  sons 
played  in  ordinary  citizen's  attire  of  hats,  and 
of  waists  and  trousers  unadorned  save  by  the 
stains  incidental  to  daily  life. 

The  North  Stars  must  have  been  employed 
for  a  time  chiefly  in  parading  about  and  seeking 
whom  they,  as  an  aggregation,  might  devour, 
but  as  a  rule  failing,  owing  to  interfering  house- 
and-yard  duties,  all  to  report  upon  any  one 
occasion.  The  contests  had  been  with  "picked 
nines,"  "just  for  fun"  (mean-  hex  schmidt 

ing  that  there  was  no  sting  in 
defeat),  when  on  a  sudden  it 
was  breathlessly  announced 
from  mouth  to  mouth  that 
"the  Second-street  kids  want 
to  play  us." 

' '  Come  on ! "  responded, 
with  a  single  valiant  voice,  the 
North  Stars. 

"We're  goin'  to  play  a 
match  game  next  Tuesday," 


[is] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


you  gave  out,  as  a  bit  of  important  news,  at 
the  supper- table. 

"That   so?"    hazarded 
father,  who  had  been  flatter- 
ingly interested  in  your  blue 
star.  "Who's  the  other  nine?" 
"The  Second-street  fellows. 
Spunk  Carey's  captain  and  — " 
"Who    is    Spunk    Carey? 
Oh,  Johnny,  what  outlandish 
"^  names  you  boys  do  rake  up!" 
exclaimed  mother. 

"Why,    he's   Frank   Carey 

the    hardware    man's    boy," 

explained  father,  indulgently. 

"What's  his  first  name,  John?" 

"I  dunno,"  you  hurriedly  owned;  "Spunk" 

had  been  quite  sufficient  for  all  purposes.  "But 

we're   goin'  to  play  in  the  vacant  lot  next  to 

Carey's  house.     There's  a  dandy  diamond." 

So  there  was.  The  Carey  side  fence  supplied 
a  fine  back-stop,  and  thence  the  grounds  ex- 
tended in  a  superb  level  of  dusty  green,  broken 
by  burdock  clumps  and  interspersed  with  tin 
cans.  The  lot  was  bounded  on  the  east  by  the 
Carey  fence,  on  the  south  and  west  by  a  high 

[16] 


CHUB  THORNBURY 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


walk,  and  on  the  north  by  the  alley.     It  was 
a  corner  lot,  which  made  it  the  more  spacious. 

The  diamond  itself  had  been  laid  out,  in  the 
beginning,  with  proportions  accommodated  to 
a  pair  of  rocks  that  would  answer  for  first  and 
second  base;  a  slab  dropped  where  third  ought 
to  be,  and  another  dropped  for  the  home  plate, 
finished  the  preliminary  work,  and  thereafter 
scores  of  running  feet,  shod  and  unshod,  had 
worn  bare  the  lines,  and  the  spots  where  stood 
pitcher,  catcher,  and  batter. 

A  landscape  architect  might  have  passed 
criticism  on  the  ensemble  of 
the  plat,  and  a  surveyor 
might  have  taken  exceptions 
to  the  configuration  of  the 
diamond,  but  who  cared? 

"We"  had  promised  that  ^ 
"we"  would  be  there,  ready 
to  play,  at  two  o'clock,  and 
"they"  had  solemnly  vowed 
that  "they"  would  be  as 
prompt.  Tuesday's  dinner 
you  gulped  and  gobbled;  in 
those  days  your  stomach  was 
patient  and  charitable  almost 

[17] 


DOC  KENNEDY 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


<C>"! 


beyond  belief  in  this  degenerate  present.  It  was 
imperative  that  you  be  at  Carey's  lot  immedi- 
ately, and  despite  the  im- 
ploring objections  of  the 
family  to  your  reckless  haste, 
you  bolted  out;  and  as  you 
went  you  drew  upon  your 
left  hand  an  old  fingerless 
kid  glove,  which  was  of  some 
peculiar  service  in  your  cen- 
ter-field duties. 

Your  uniform  had  been 
put  on  upon  arising  that 
morning.  You  always  wore 
it  nowadays  except  when  in 
bed  or  on  Sundays.  It  was 
your  toga  of  the  purple  border,  and  the  bat  that 
you  carried  from  early  to  late,  in  your  peregri- 
nations, was  your  scepter  mace. 

At  your  unearthly  yodel,  from  next  door 
rushed  out  your  crony,  Hen  Schmidt,  and  joined 
you;  and  upon  your  way  to  the  vacant  lot  you 
picked  up  Billy  Lunt  and  Chub  Thorn  bury. 

The  four  of  you  succeeded  in  all  talking  at 
once:  the  Second-streets  were  great  big  fellows; 
their  pitcher  was  Doc  Kennedy   and  it  wasn't 

[18] 


RED  CONROY 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


fair,  because  he  threw  as  hard  as  he  could,  and 
he  was  nearly  sixteen;  Hop  Hopkins  said  he'd 
be  "empire";  Red  Conroy  was  going  to  play, 
and  he  always  was  wanting  to  fight ;  darn  it  — 
if  Fat  only  wouldn't  pitch,  but  let  somebody 
else  do  it!  Bob  Leslie  could  throw  an  awful 
big  "in,"  etc. 

The  fateful  lot  dawned  upon  the  right,  around 
the  corner  of  an  alley  fence.  Hurrah,  there 
they  are !  You  see  Nixie  and  Tom  Kemp,  and 
Hod  O'Shea,  and  Bob  Leslie,  and  Spunk,  and 
Screw  Major,  and  Ted  Watson,  and  Slim  Hard- 
ing, and  the  redoubtable  Red  Conroy  (engaged 
in  bullying  a  smaller  boy), 
and  others  who  must  be  the 
remainder  of  the  Second- 
streets. 

"  Hello,  kids,"  you  say,  and 
likewise  say  your  three  com- 
panions; and  with  bat  trail- 
ing you  stalk  with  free  and 
easy  dignity  into  the  crowd. 

"Where's  Fat?  Who's 
seen  Fat?"  asked  every- 
body of  everybody;  for  Cap- 
tain Fat  was  the  sole  essential 

[19] 


OLLIE  HANSEN 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


personage  lacking.  However,  even  without  him, 
pending  his  arrival  the  scene  was  one  of  stirring 
animation. 

Thick  and  fast  flew  here  and  there  the  several 
balls  on  the  grounds,  each  nine 
keeping  to  itself,  and  each  boy 
throwing  " curves"  —  or,  at 
least,  thus  essaying. 

You  yourself,  brave  in  your 
splendor  of  blue  star  and  red 
stripe,  endeavored,  by  now 
and  then  negligently  catching 
with  one  hand,  to  make  it 
plain  that  you  were  virtually 
a  professional. 

The  Second-streets  were  as 
yet  ununiformed,  even  in  sec- 
tions. But  they  were  a  rugged, 
rough-and-ready  set,  and  two 
of  them  had  base-ball  shoes 
on,  proving  that  they  were  experts. 

"Here's  Fat!  Here  comes  Fat!"  suddenly 
arose  the  welcoming  cry;  and  appareled  in  his 
regimentals,  his  cap  announcing  to  all  beholders 
his  high  rank,  panting,  hot,  perspiring,  up 
hustled  the  leader  of  the  North  Stars. 

[20] 


BOB  LESLIE 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


It  was  time  to  begin. 

"Who's  got  a  ball?"  demanded  Umpire 
Hopkins,  sometimes  called  Harry,  but  more 
generally  known  as  Hop  or  Hoptoad. 

The  query  disclosed  a  serious  condition. 
Balls  there  were,  but  not  suitable  for  a  cham- 
pionship match  game.  They  were  ten-  and 
fifteen-centers,  as  hard  as  grapeshot  or  already 
knocked  flabby. 

" Where's  your  ball,  Fat?"  you  asked  in- 
cautiously. 

"In  my  pocket,"  admitted  Fat  —  a  bulging 
fact  that  he  could  not  well  pete  jones 


deny. 

"What  is  it?  Le' 's  see, 
Fat,"  demanded  Captain 
Spunk. 

"It'sa  regular  dollar 
league,"  you  informed  glibly; 
and  Fat,  with  mingled  pride 
and  reluctance,  extracted  it 
from  the  pocket  of  his 
knickerbockers, — peeled  it, 
so  to  speak,  into  the  open, 
—  and  handed  it  out  for  in- 
spection. 

[21] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


A>. 


"Gee!"  commented  Spunk,  thumbing  it,  and 
chucking  it  up  and  catching  it.  "It's  a  dandy! 
Come  on,  kids;  here's  a  ball!" 

"But  if  you  use  my  ball,  you've  got  to  give 
us  our  outs,"  bargained  Fat, 
dismayed. 

"G'wan!"  growled  Red 
Conroy.  "Don't  you  do  it, 
Spunk.  'Tain't  goin'  to  hurt 
his  old  ball  any." 

Awed  by  the  ever-belliger- 
ent Red,  Fat  submitted  to  the 
customary  lot  by  bat.     Spunk 
tossed  a  bat  at  him,  and  he 
H  caught   it,  with   an   elaborate 
show   of   method,    about   the 
middle;    then    with    alternate 
hands  they  proceeded  to  cover 
it  upward  to  the  end. 
The  last  hand  for  which  there  was  space  was 
Fat's;  by  no  manner  of  means  could  Spunk 
squeeze  his  grimy  fist  into  the  two  inches  left. 

"We'll  take  our  outs,"  majestically  asserted 
Captain  Fat;  whereat  whooped  shrilly  all  the 
North  Stars,  and  quite  regardless  of  their  affilia- 
tions whooped  shrilly  the  spectators  also,  com- 

[22] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


SCREW  MAJOR 


posed  of  small  brothers  and  a  few  friends  about 
equally  divided  between  the  contestant  nines. 

Some  preliminaries  were  yet  to  be  gone 
through  with.  Doc  Kennedy  was  protested 
because  he  pitched  so  swift. 

"  Aw,  /  won't  throw  hard,"  he  assured  bluffly. 

"Of  course  not!  He's  easy  to  hit,"  chorused 
his  companions. 

Then,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  Billy  Lunt  had 
a  sore  finger,  as  evidenced  by  a  cylinder  of 
whitish  rag  (which  he  slipped  off,  obligingly, 
whenever  solicited),  it  was  agreed  that  he  be 
allowed  to  catch  the  third 
strike  on  the  first  bounce. 

A  foul  over  the  back-stop 
fence  was  out;  a  like  penalty 
was  attached  to  flies  over  the 
boundary  walks. 

And  now,  turning  hand- 
springs and  otherwise  gambol- 
ing exultantly,  the  North  Stars 
scattered  to  their  respective 
positions. 

Away  out  in  center-field 
you  prepared  to  guard  your 
territory.    You  bent  over,  with 

[23] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


your  hands  upon  your  knees,   and  ever  and 
anon   you   spat   fiercely,    sometimes   upon   the 

ground  and  sometimes  into 
your  kid  glove.  This  was 
the  performance  of  the  play- 
ers upon  the  town's  nine, 
the  Red  Stockings,  and  evi- 
dently greatly  added  to  their 
efficiency. 

Besides,  on  the  edge  of 
the  walk  just  back  of  you 
were  sitting  and  swinging 
their  slim  legs  two  little 
girls,  whom  it  was  pleasant 
to  impress. 

Overhead  the  sun  was 
blazing  hot,  but  not  to  you ; 
underfoot  the  dust  from  a 
long  dry  spell  lay  choking 
thick,  but  not  to  you;  a  "darning-needle" 
whizzed  past,  and  you  scarcely  ducked,  although 
he  might  be  bent  upon  sewing  up  your  ears. 

Your  work  was  too  stern  to  admit  of  your 
noticing  sun,  or  dust,  or  mischievous  dragon-fly. 
So  you  spat  into  your  glove,  replaced  your 
hands  on  your  knees,  and  waited. 

[24] 


TED  WATSON 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


SLIM  HARDING 


" Hello,  Johnny!"  piped  one  of  the  little  girls; 
but  you  deigned  not  to  make  answer. 

To  right  and  to  left  were  the  Kemp  boys, 
with  their  hands  upon  their  knees;  and  before 
were  the  infielders,  with  their  hands  likewise 
upon  their  knees;  that  is,  all 
except  the  pitcher. 

" Play  ball!"  gruffly  bade 
the  umpire. 

Captain  Spunk  advanced 
to  the  slab. 

"Gimme  a  low  ball,"  he 
ordered,  sticking  out  his  bat 
to  indicate  the  proper  height 
that  would  meet  his  wishes. 

Captain  Fat  rolled  the 
ball  rapidly  between  his 
palms,  and  thus  having  im- 
parted to  it  what  he  fondly 
believed  was  a  mysterious 
twist,  hurled  it. 

"One  ball!"  cried  the 
umpire. 

Captain  Spunk  banged  the  slab  with  his  bat. 

"Aw,  gimme  a  low  ball  over  the  plate!"  he 
urged. 

[25] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


*HSW* 


Again  the  pitcher  rubbed  twist  into  the 
sphere,  and  out  in  center-field  you  hung  upon 
his  motions. 

uOne  strike!"  declared  the  umpire,  and  a 
great  shout  of  derision  arose 
from  the  North  Stars  and 
their  adherents. 

Captain  Fat  smiled  wick- 
edly :  the  unfortunate  batter 
^    was  being  fooled  by  those 
deceptive  curves. 

"What  did  you  strike  at 
that  fer  —  'way  up  over  yer 
head!"  censured  Red  Con- 
roy,  angrily. 
"Darn  it!  gimme  a  good  low  ball!    You're 
'fraid  to!"  challenged  Captain  Spunk. 

Whack!  He  had  hit  it.  Right  between 
Short-stop  Chub's  legs  it  darted,  and  you  and 
left-field  together  stopped  it,  but  too  late  to 
prevent  the  runner's  reaching  first. 

Chub  came  in  for  a  tongue-lashing  from  all 
sides;  and  then  Spunk  stole  second,  and  Billy 
threw  over  Bob's  head  there  (at  the  same  time 
throwing  the  rag  cylinder,  also,  half-way  to  the 
pitcher's  box),  and  you  desperately  fielded  the 

[26] 


I'M  ^  *> 


TOM  KEMP 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


ball  in,  and  Fat  got  it,  and  threw  over  Hod's 
head  at  third,  and  to  the  wild  cries  of  "Home! 
Home!  Sock  her  home!"  Nixie  got  it  and 
threw  it  at  Billy;  but  nevertheless  Spunk, 
spurred  on  by  the  frantic  exhortations  of  his 
fellows,  panting  " Tally  one!"  crossed  the  slab. 

Triumphantly  cheered  the  Second-streets,  and 
busily  flashed  the  jack-knife  of  each  spectator 
as  he  cut  a  tally-notch  in  a  stick. 

Billy  ran  forward  and  reclaimed  his  precious 


rag. 


NIXIE  KEMP 


Ten  more  tallies  were  recorded  before  the 
half-inning  closed.  The 
whole  North  Star  nine  was 
red  from  running  after  the 
ball  and  disputing  with  the 
umpire  —  disputes  into 
which  everybody  on  the 
ground  had  earnestly  en- 
tered. Red  Conroy  had 
threatened  to  "smash"  sev- 
eral North  Stars,  you 
among  them;  Catcher 
Billy  had  long  since  witnessed  his  cylinder 
trampled  into  the  diamond  and  ruined;  Cap- 
tain Fat  had  tried  all  the  most  deadly  twists 

E*7] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

in  his  repertoire ;  when,  finally,  hot  and  irritated, 
you  and  yours  had  come  in. 

And  now,  reminding  Pitcher  Doc  that  he  had 
promised  not  to  throw  hard,  Billy  stepped  to 
the  plate,  to  hit,  to  reach  first,  daringly  to  steal 
second,  foolishly  to  be  caught  between  bases, 
successfully  to  dash  past  Red,  who  endeavored 
to  trip  him,  and  out  of  the  confusion  safely  to 
attain  third,  whence  soon  he  galloped  home, 
and  tallied. 

"'Leven  to  five!"  declared  the  sprawling 
spectators,  every  one  a  score-keeper,  to  each 
other,  as  at  last  in  scampered  the  Second-streets 
and  out  lagged  the  North  Stars. 

You  had  not  batted,  and  you  were  relieved, 
because  batting  was  a  great  responsibility,  with 
your  critical  fellows  advising  you,  and  casti- 
gating you  whenever  you  missed. 

In  this  their  next  inning  the  Second-streets 
made  fourteen!  Notwithstanding  Fat's  utmost 
art,  as  signified  by  his  various  occult  motions, 
they  batted  him  only  too  easily,  and  kept  infield 
and  outfield  chasing  all  over  the  lot.  Yet  he 
angrily  refused  to  "let  somebody  else  pitch." 
Bob  Leslie  even  attempted  to  take  the  ball 
away  from  him  and  forcibly  trade  places  —  a 

[28] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

mutiny  which  called  forth  an  "Aw,  g'wan  an' 
play  ball,  you  kids!"  from  the  waiting  batter, 
Screw  Major. 

"Why  don't  you  fellows  stop  some  of  them 
grounders,  then?"  retorted  Fat  to  derogatory 
accusations.  "Gee  whiz!  You  don't  stop 
nothin'!" 

Thus  it  resolved  into  a  question  of  whether  't 
was  not  stopping,  or  having  o'ermuch  to  stop, 
that  brought  disaster. 

It  was  your  turn.  Your  faced  the  mighty 
Doc.  He  threw,  and  the  ball  came  like  a 
cannon-shot,  you  thought. 

"You're  throwin'  swift!"  you  remonstrated. 

"  Shut  up ! "  sneered  Red,  from  third.  "Who's 
a-throwin'  swift?  Give  him  one  in  the  head, 
Doc!" 

Blindly  you  struck,  and  the  condemnations 
of  your  mentors  squatting  anear  raked  you  fore 
and  aft. 

Quite  unexpectedly  you  hit  it.  You  did  not 
know  where  it  went,  but  you  scudded  for 
first. 

' '  Second !  Second ! ' '  gesticulating  frantically, 
bawled  all  your  companions,  coaching  you  on- 
ward. 

[29] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Second!  Second!"  bawled  with  equal  fer- 
vor your  opponents,  coaching  the  fielder. 

You  grabbed  off  your  cap,  —  it  is  strange 
how  much  faster  a  boy  can  run  when  thus  as- 
sisted, —  and  madly  dug  for  second.  Praise 
be!  There  you  were,  beating  the  ball,  which 
appeared  from  a  mysterious  somewhere,  by  a 
hair's-breadth. 

You  stuck  to  second,  meanwhile  dancing  and 
prancing  to  tantalize  the  pitcher,  until  another 
hit  forwarded  you  to  third,  for  which  you  slid, 
not  because  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  slide, 
but  because  the  slide  was  a  part  of  the  game. 

Here,  at  third,  while  you  were  dreaming  of 
the  home  slab,  and  the  honor  of  admonishing, 
hoarsely,  for  the  information  of  the  world, 
"Tally  me!"  Red,  the  ruthless,  abruptly  gave 
you  a  shove,  hurling  you  from  position. 

"Quick,  Doc!"  he  cried. 

Doc  responded  with  the  ball. 

"Out!"  decreed  the  umpire. 

"But  he  shoved  me!  He  shoved  me  off  the 
base!"  you  shrieked. 

"  Who  shoved  yer ?  I  didn't,  neither!  G'wan! 
Yer  out;  don't  you  hear  the  empire?"  snarled 
back  Red. 

[30] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"You  did,  too!"  you  asserted. 

"He  did,  too!  No  fair!  He  shoved  him  like 
everything!"  vociferated  all  the  North  Stars  and 
their  supporters. 

"You're  out!  You're  out!"  gibed  the  Second- 
streets,  from  catcher  to  farthest  fielder. 

"Out!"  majestically  pronounced  the  umpire 


again. 


Slowly,  obedient  to  the  higher  authority  repre- 
sented in  the  freckled-faced  Hoptoad,  you 
walked  down  the  base-line.  In  some  way,  ap- 
parently, you  had  disgraced  your  blue  star, 
begrimed  from  your  manful  slide,  for  "Why 
did  you  let  him  touch  you?"  accused  your 
comrades. 

The  idea!  How  could  you  help  it,  you'd 
like  to  know. 

It  was  the  first  half  of  the  fifth  inning.  The 
score,  according  to  the  notches  on  the  sticks, 
was  fifty  to  thirty-one,  in  favor  of  the  Second- 
streets.  Those  spectators  who  had  exercised 
the  forethought  to  start  with  long  sticks  were  in 
clover,  while  those  with  short  sticks  were  having 
hard  work  to  find  space  for  all  the  runs. 

The  sun  was  not  so  high  as  when  the  game 

[31] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

began,  neither  were  your  spirits.  Much  excited 
chasing,  and  much  strenuous  yelling,  had  told 
upon  you.  Your  face  was  streaked;  your  hair 
was  in  dank  disorder;  your  blue  star  flapped, 
and  your  waistband  sagged  behind,  mourning 
for  departed  buttons.  You  were  what  mothers 
style  "a  perfect  sight." 

The  air  had  been  rent  by  incessant  wran- 
glings.  Tom  Kemp  and  Screw  Major  had  in- 
dulged in  a  brief  rough-and-tumble,  because 
Screw  had  thought  that  Tom  had  purposely 
trodden  upon  his  sore  toe,  Screw  injudiciously 
being  barefoot. 

Every  member  of  the  North  Stars  had  com- 
mitted egregious  errors,  and  had  been  tartly 
excoriated  by  all  hands.  You  yourself  had 
muffed,  and  had  thrown  the  ball  seven  ways 
for  Sunday. 

Fat  was  still  doggedly  clinging  to  pitch,  and 
Doc  was  throwing  swift.  The  two  little  girls, 
once  your  admirers,  had  gone  away  in  disgust. 
And  the  score,  as  remarked  above,  was  fifty  to 
thirty-one. 

Tug  McCormack  it  was  who  picked  out  one 
of  Fat's  wonderful  twisters  and  batted  it  over 
your  head.     After  it  you  raced,  deliriously  dis- 

[32] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


carding,  of  course,  your  sadly  abused  cap,  that 
you  might  gain  in  speed.  Behind  you  bellowed 
friends  and  enemies,  and  around  the  bases  was 
pelting  Tug. 

Where  was  the  ball  —  oh,  where  was  it !  It  must 
have  struck  a  can  or  stick,  and  bounded  crooked. 

"  Hurry!  Hurry!"  exhorted  the  Second- 
streets  to  Tug. 

"Home!  Home!  Home  with  it!"  exhorted 
the  North  Stars  to  you. 

"Pick  it  up  now  and  look  for  it  afterward!" 
yelled  second  base. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  It's  right 
there!"  yelled  Captain  Fat. 

"Darn  it!  Ain't  you  got  eyes?"  yelled  left- 
field,  and  "You  darned  fool!"  yelled  right-field, 
converging  from  each  side. 

"Lost  ball!"  you  screamed,  tramping  hither 
and  thither  to  show  that  you  spoke  truth. 

"Lost  ball!"  screamed  the  Kemp  brothers. 

"Lost  ball!  Lo-o-ost  ba-a-all!"  chimed  in 
the  North  Stars  generally. 

But  Tug  had  scored. 

"No  fair!"  objected  Billy  Lunt.  "He's  got 
to  go  back  to  second.  Lost  ball!  Don't  you 
hear?    Lost  ball!" 

[33] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"I  don't  care.  'Tain't  my  fault,"  confuted 
Tug. 

"Course  not!"  said  Captain  Spunk,  scorn- 
fully. 

"But  you  can't  come  in  on  a  lost  ball;  can  he, 
Hop?"  appealed  Billy  to  the  umpire. 

"  Shut  up !  What  yer  talkin'  about  ?  Course 
he  can,"  affirmed  Red. 

"Shut  up  yourself!"  hotly  bade  Billy.  "  You 
aren't  runnin'  the  game.     Can  he,  Hop?" 

"I  dunno!"  confessed  Umpire  Hop,  digging 
with  his  toe  at  a  mound  of  dirt. 

"  Ya-a-a-a-ah ! "  sneered  Red  at  the  discom- 
fited Billy. 

"Well,  he  can't  just  the  samee!"  resolved 
Captain  Fat.     "It's  my  ball." 

"Just  the  samee,  he  can!"  contradicted  Cap- 
tain Spunk.     "It's  my  father's  lot." 

"Lost  ball!  Lo-o-ost  ba-a-all!"  you  and 
Nixie  and  Tom  had  been  calling  as  unceasingly 
as  the  tolling  of  a  bell;  and  continuing  the  dis- 
cussion, which  abated  never,  the  members  of 
both  nines,  and  the  spectators,  who  also  were 
the  score-keepers,  scattered  over  the  ground  to 
assist  in  the  search. 

It  seemed  that  no  effort  or  artifice,  even  to 

[34] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


lying  down  and  rolling  where  the  weeds  were 
thick,  could  bring  to  light  that  ball,  until  sud- 
denly piped  little  Jamie  Watson: 

"Red  Conroy's  runnin'  off!" 

"He's  got  it,  I  bet  you!  Hey!  Stop,  thief!" 
hailed  Tom,  quickly. 

"Drop  that  ball!  Stop,  thief!"  swelled  the 
chorus. 

But  down  the  alley  legged  Red,  and  disap- 
peared over  a  fence.  Evidently  he  had  "got 
it." 

"Wait  till  I  catch  him!"  promised  Fat,  in 
deep,  wrathful  tones. 

You  ought  to  have  been  very  tired  that  even- 
ing at  the  supper-table,  but  you  were  not,  for 
in  those  days  you  never  were  tired,  save  momen- 
tarily. However,  you  still  were  green  and 
brown  in  spots  that  your  hurried  washing  had 
not  touched,  and  dusty  in  other  sections  that 
your  equally  hurried  brushing  had  omitted. 
Your  face  was  as  red  as  a  setting  sun,  and  you 
were  full  of  experiences  —  a  fulness  that  did 
not  in  the  slightest  impair  your  appetite. 

"Who  beat?"  had  inquired  mother,  as  you 
had  come  trudging  in. 

[35l 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"We  only  played  four  innin's,  and  they  were 
fifty  and  we  were  thirty-one,  and  then  Red 
Conroy  stole  the  ball,"  you  explained. 

"Well,  who  beat?"  asked  father,  at  the  table. 

"Nobody  did,"  you  stated,  this  solution  hav- 
ing occurred  to  you.  "We  didn't  finish,  'cause 
Red  Conroy  he  ran  off  with  the  ball." 

"But  what  was  the  score  when  this  hap- 
pened?" pursued  father. 

"Fifty  to  thirty-one  —  but  it  was  only  four 
innings,"  you  answered,  with  a  wriggle. 

"And  who  made  the  fifty?"  persisted  father, 
ignoring  mother's  warning  frown. 

"They  —  they  did,  "you  blurted;  and  then  you 
hastened  to  add,  "But  they're  lots  bigger'n  us." 


'W  v     'I      %^<L  %  r\ 


TUG  McCORMACK 


[36] 


YOU  AT  SCHOOL 


YOU  AT  SCHOOL 

NOW  and  again  you  dream  one  special 
dream.  Suddenly  you  find  yourself  back 
in  school.  There  you  are,  a  great  awkward 
man,  squeezing  into  the  old  familiar  seat  and 
essaying  some  strangely  mixed-up  lesson.  And 
about  you  are  the  mates  of  yore,  who  have  not, 
apparently,  grown  a  bit. 

Although  they  seem  not  to  notice  anything 
peculiar  in  your  presence,  nevertheless  your 
position  is  decidedly  embarrassing  to  you.  You 
feel  that  you  must  mind  the  teacher,  of  course, 
and  yet  you  cannot,  for  the  life  of  you,  get  that 
lesson!  What  a  gawk  you  are!  And  how  in 
the  world  are  you  ever  going  to  stand  this 
awful  reversal? 

Then  you  awaken,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
discover  yourself,  in  the  gray  of  the  morning, 
safely  brought  down  to  date,  in  your  bed. 

And  once  more  you  sigh,  but  this  time  not  in 
relief.  It  is  a  sigh  tenderly  laid  by  retrospection 
upon  the  urn  of  the  past. 

[39] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

In  your  dream  the  schoolroom  was  unusually 
small,  and  your  seat  was  constricted  to  the 
extent  that  your  knees  were  tightly  pressed 
against  the  under  side  of  the  desk,  while  the 
edge  of  it  was  creasing  your  stomach.  How- 
ever, probably  it  was  not  that  the  room  and  the 
seat  had  shrunk;  it  was  that  you  had  expanded 
beyond  limits. 

In  the  days  when  it  was  quite  proper  that 
you  should  be  in  school,  the  room  was  extensive 
indeed,  and  the  seat  was  ample  for  innumerable 
wriggles.  For  instance,  it  permitted  you  to 
slide  down  until,  reaching  forward  with  your 
two  feet,  you  engaged  the  insteps  of  Billy  Lunt, 
and  hauling  back  with  all  your  might,  deli- 
riously held  him  so  that  he  could  move  only 
from  the  waist  upward.  Abruptly  you  released 
him,  and  his  feet  dropped  with  a  big  thump 
that  made  the  teacher  frown. 

This  seat  and  desk  was  your  little  state,  sur- 
rounded by  other  little  states  similar  to  it,  and 
all  ruled  by  "teacher,"  who,  like  some  Pallas 
Athena,  from  her  Olympia  platform  surveyed 
and  appraised,  bade  and  forbade. 

Your  state  was  bounded  on  the  rear  by 
Snoopie  Mitchell's,  on  the  front  by  Billy  Lunt's, 

[40] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


on  the  right  and  the  left  by  a  river,  or  aisle, 
such  as  at  regular  intervals  divided  the  country 
and  opened  up  the  interior  to  travel. 

This  was  a  country  of  equal  suffrage ;  some  of 
the  states  were  feminine,  some  were  mascuHne. 
All,  but  especially  the  masculine,  were  liable  to 
internal   troubles,   produced   through   external 


agencies. 


As  example,  the  bent  pin  was  an  indefatigable 
disturber  of  the  peace.  It  would  intrude  at  the 
slightest  opportunity,  and  the  first  thing  that 
you  knew  it  was  in  your  midst  —  almost  liter- 
ally. The  canny  explored  their  seat  of  state 
(or  their  state  of  seat,  if  preferred)  with  their 
hands,  before  venturing  to  settle  for  the  pur- 
suance of  routine  duties. 

Poor,  long-suffering  Billy  Lunt  (yet  poor  you, 
as  well;  for  although  you  are  behind  him,  the 
mischievous  Snoopie  is  behind  you) !  Down  he 
plumps,  and  up  he  jumps  with  a  wild  "Yow!" 
at  which  your  whole  being  exults  even  while 
your  heart  beats  uneasily.  You  descry,  where 
he  is  frantically  clutching,  the  steely  glint  of  it ! 

"Will,  sit  down!"  thunders  the  teacher. 

This,  forsooth,  is  adding  insult  to  injury;  for 
had  he  been  able  to  sit,  assuredly  he  would  not 

[41] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


thus  have  arisen.     In  a  moment  he  cautiously, 
gingerly  obeys,  at  the  same  time  holding  into 

sight  the  pin,  as 
though  it  were  a 
monstrosity,  so  that 
all  must  see. 

To  "yow"  very 
loudly,  and  to  ex- 
||Jp  pose  the  cause  with 
great  ostentation  to 
the  utmost  publicity, 
was  the  resort  of 
every  pin-afflicted 
petty  ruler. 

"John,    did    you 
put  that  pin  on 
Will's    seat?"     de- 
mands the  teacher. 
The  wave  of  snig- 
gers that  had  swelled 
during  Billy's  antics 
ebbs  and  dies,  and 
all  the  world  listens 
for  your  reply. 
With  the  frankest  astonishment  —  astonish- 
ment that  ought  to  have  completely  turned  sus- 

[42] 


TEACHER 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

picion  —  you  have  been  gazing  at  the  Lunt 
performance.  Has  he  gone  crazy?  What  can 
ail  him?     Who  could  have  done  it  to  him? 

This  simulated  wonder  is  your  part  of  the 
program  —  your  voluntary  part,  that  is. 

"  John,  I  ask  you  if  you  put  that  pin  there," 
reiterates  the  persistent  examiner,  judge,  and 
executioner. 

And  now  that  the  glamour  of  the  deed  has 
faded,  how  you  wish  that  you  had  not!  For 
the  voluntary  part  of  the  program  is  always 
followed  by  an  involuntary  part. 

All  in  all,  the  possession  of  a  state  in  these 
united  states  is  fraught  with  peril.  So  much  is 
prohibited.  It  is  unlawful  to  have  a  poor  mem- 
ory or  a  dull  brain  or  a  careless  tongue;  it  is 
unlawful  to  carry  on  intercourse,  either  written 
or  oral  or  by  signs,  with  neighbor  states;  it  is 
unlawful  to  import  articles  for  consumption  — 
such  as  cinnamon  drops,  or  lemon  drops,  or 
jujube,  or  licorice;  while  to  import  gum  is  a 
capital  offense. 

Nevertheless,  gum  is  imported  and  secreted 
by  being  stuck  to  the  inner  surface  of  the  desk- 
top, thence  to  be  peeled  off  at  recess  and  at 
closing-time,  and  chewed.     Sometimes  it  is  for- 

[43] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

gotten,  and  the  janitor  contemptuously  scrapes 
it  to  the  floor  for  his  dust-heap,  or  a  successor 
to  you  rapturously  finds  it.  Whenever  one 
moves  into  a  new  state,  one  runs  a  pleasurable 
chance  of  discovering  a  gum-deposit. 

The  principal  penalties  are  "  stayin'-after- 
school,"  "gettin'-sent-home,"  and  "lickin's." 

It  is  the  close  of  a  day  in  this  despotic  mon- 
archy, and  the  despot  has  tapped  her  bell  for 
books  to  be  put  away.  The  next  tap  will  mean 
dismissal ;  but  between  taps  comes  the  allotment 
of  punishments. 

You  reflect  —  and  regret.  There  was  once 
during  the  day  when  you  asked  Billy  Lunt  if 
he  had  "the  first  example."  You  whispered  it 
very  circumspectly,  but  the  unruly  sibilants  in 
your  tones  somehow  spread  into  the  open. 
"Teacher"  pricked  her  ears  in  your  direction, 
and  with  her  pencil  she  apparently  made  a 
memorandum  upon  her  ready  slip. 

Was  it  your  name  she  jotted?  Or  was  it 
Billy's?  He  was  in  the  act  of  showing  you  his 
slate.  You  are  ungenerous  enough  to  hope  that 
it  was  Billy's. 

In  the  meantime  you  hold  your  breath  (as, 
in  similar  anxiety,  round  about  you  do  your 

[44] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


compatriots,  save  the  goody-goodies  and  the 
"  teacher's  pets,"  whose  names  never  are  read) 
and  listen. 

The  kids  are  going  swimming;  the  signal  has 
been  passed  along.  You  have  set  your  heart 
upon  going  with  them.  Consequently,  never 
have  you  felt  so  repentant,  so  full  of  high  re- 
solves and  the  best  intentions,  and  your  ap- 
pealing gaze  might  well  have  moved  a  stone, 
to  say  nothing  of  a 
teacher. 

"Those  whose 
names  I  read  may 
remain,"  she  an- 
nounces calmly: 
"Sam  Jessup,  Dolly 
Smith,  Horace 
Brown,  Leonard 
Irving,  Patrick  Con- 
roy,  Olga  Jansen, 
John  Walker!" 

Crushed,  you  hear 
the  second  tap; 
freed,  the  others  rise ; 
out  they  file,  but  you 
stay    behind  —  you 


"  STAYIN'-AFTER-SCHOOL  " 


[45] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

and  a  few  companions  in  misery  scattered  at 
wide  intervals  through  the  nearly  deserted  room. 

From  without  sound  gay  shouts  and  laughter, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying  in  the 
distance. 

You  are  marooned. 

"Take  your  books  and  go  to  work  at  some 
lesson!"  orders  the  teacher. 

Maybe,  if  you  strive  hard  and  obediently,  she 
will  let  you  go  soon.  Some  of  the  prisoners 
shuffle  angrily,  and  rebel] iously  bang  things 
about  in  their  desks;  but  you  promptly  open 
your  geography,  and  hoping  that  her  eye  is 
noting  you,  pretend  to  apply  yourself  to  its 
text.  Silence  falls,  broken  only  by  the  meas- 
ured tick-tock  of  the  clock  on  the  wall. 

Presently  you  glance  up.  Five  minutes  have 
passed.  "Teacher,"  with  eyes  fastened  upon 
her  desk,  is  engaged  in  correcting  a  quantity  of 
exercises.  She  seems  to  pay  not  the  slightest 
attention  to  the  clock. 

You  give  a  weary  little  shuffle  —  your  first 
—  and  turn  a  page. 

Two  more  minutes.  Even  yet  you  could 
catch  the  kids.  How  good  you  are!  But, 
blame  it,  what  is  the  sense,  if  she  does  not  notice  ? 

[46] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Tick-tock,  tick-tock,  repeats  the  monitor  on 
the  wall,  checking  off  the  wasted  moments. 

Ten  minutes!  Is  she  going  to  keep  you  all 
night?  Doesn't  she  see  what  time  it  is  getting 
to  be?  You  make  a  lot  of  noise,  to  warn  her; 
but  she  never  looks.  For  all  that  is  evident, 
she  might  have  forgotten  the  existence  of  you 
and  everybody  else.  She  simply  goes  on  reading 
and  marking. 

Twelve  minutes.  You  raise  your  hand.  You 
keep  it  raised.  You  shuffle  some  more,  and 
you  cough,  and  you  shuffle  again. 

"Well,  John,  what  is  it?"  she  vouchsafes  in 
a  tired  voice. 

She  has  heard  you  all  the  time,  but  you  don't 
know  it.  Neither  do  you  know  that  she  has 
been  reading  you  while  reading  scrawly  exer- 
cises. 

"How  long  do  I  have  to  stay?" 
"Until  I  tell  you  you  may  go." 
Fifteen  minutes.  You  throw  off  your  hypo- 
critical sainthood,  and  you  lapse  into  your 
genuine  boiling,  raging  self.  Darn  her.  Darn 
the  teacher !  Darn  the  old  teacher !  What  does 
she  care  about  going  swimming  ?  She  just  wants 
to  keep  a  fellow  in !    You'll  show  her  sometime ! 

[47] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

And  you  shuffle  and  scrape  and  kick  and  bang, 
and  she  apparently  pays  not  the  least  heed 
to  it. 

The  darned  old  thing  (although,  in  truth,  she 
is  not  old,  save  in  boy  eyes  and  in  boy  ways) ! 

Twenty  minutes!     Darn  the  — 

"You  may  go  now,  Johnny." 

She  cuts  your  condemnatory  sentence  right 
in  the  middle;  and  not  finishing  it,  you  hastily 
throw  the  geography  into  your  desk,  and  make 
for  the  door.  On  your  way  you  dart  a  glance 
at  her,  wondering  if  she  knows  what  names  you 
have  been  calling  her.  She  smiles  at  you,  and 
you  feel  rather  sheepish. 

After  all,  you  have  time  for  a  swim,  delight- 
fully prefaced  by  throwing  mud  at  the  whole 
crowd  in  ahead  of  you. 

Staying-after-school  is  a  penalty  for  misde- 
meanors; for  crimes  there  is  "gettin'-sent- 
home"  —  not  bad  at  all  until  you  get  there, 
furnishing,  as  it  does,  a  vacation  —  and  " lick- 
in'  s,"  which  sounds  worse  than  it  really  is. 

"Lickin's"  don't  hurt  half  the  time.  Never 
would  a  boy  admit,  outside,  that  a  licking  hurt; 
he  "bellered  just  for  fun"!  The  fact  is,  lots  of 
the  kids  declared  they  had  rather  take  a  licking 

[48] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


than  be  kept  after  school,  for  a  licking  was 
soon  over,  and  then  you  were  through. 

But  by  virtually  unanimous  vote  the  kids  all 
asserted  that  they  had  rather  be  licked,  any 
day,  or  stay  after  school  for  a  whole  month, 
than  "speak." 

It  is  Friday  afternoon  —  a  fateful  Friday 
when  sashes  and  squeaky  shoes  and  slicked 
hair  and  significantly  arrayed  chairs  herald 
"  speaking  day."  And  you  are  among  the  elect, 
as  testify  your  red  tie  without  and  your  uneasy 
heart  within. 

Early  the  books  are  put  away,  and  with  the 
clearing  of  the  desks  are  cleared  also  the 
metaphorical  decks. 

A  bustle  is  heard  at  the  threshold,  and  in 
come  the  first  of  the  visitors  —  a  pair  of  mothers. 
Whose  mothers  they  are  is  speedily  indicated 
by  the  flaming  ears  of  a  very  red  girl  and  a  very 
red  boy,  at  whom,  as  the  intelligence  spreads, 
all  the  school  looks. 

The  mothers  rustle  chairward,  settle  into 
place,  and  smilingly  wait. 

Another  bustle!  More  visitors!  Out  of  the 
corner  of  your  eye  you  slant  one  apprehensive 
glance  in  their  direction,  and  then  you  quickly 

[49] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

turn  your  head  the  other  way.  It  is  your 
mother.  You  felt  it  even  before  Snoopie  gave 
you  a  painful  telegraphic  kick.  She  has  come. 
She  said  that  she  might.  You  have  been  alter- 
nately hoping  and  fearing.     Now  you  know. 

In  impish  ecstasy  Snoopie  keeps  dealing  you 
irritating  jabs.     His  mother  never  comes. 

Teacher  moves  from  the  platform  and  seats 
herself  at  one  side.  It  is  the  final  preparation. 
In  her  hand  she  holds  the  list  of  prospective 
performers,  and  somewhere  adown  it  is  your 
name. 

You  would  give  worlds  to  know  just  where 

-  just  whom  you  follow.  The  chief  agony 
attached  to  the  afternoon  is  in  the  racking  un- 
certainty as  to  when  one  will  be  called  upon. 
The  nearer  the  top  of  the  list,  the  better,  for 
thereafter  one  will  be  free  to  revel  in  the  plight 
of  others.  But  to  be  reserved  until  toward  the 
last,  and  to  sit  in  a  cold  sweat  through  most  of 
the  afternoon  -  -  ah,  this  is  the  suspense  that 
fairly  curls  one's  toes! 

Listen!     She  is  going  to  read. 

"Harry  Wilson.  Recitation:  'George  Nidi- 
ver.'" 

Amid  oppressive  silence  Harry  clumps  up  the 

[50] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

aisle,  and  stumbling  miserably  on  the  platform 
step  receives  a  tribute  of  grateful  titters.  Teacher 
taps  rebukingly  with  her  pencil,  and  frowns. 
Harry  bobs  his  head  for  a  bow,  and,  white  and 
blinky,  proceeds: 

"Men  have  done  brave  deeds, 

And  bards  have  sung  them  well: 
I  of  good  George  Nidiver 
Now  the  tale  will  tell. 

"In  California  mountains 
A  hunter  bold  was  he: 
Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 
As  any  you  should  see. 

"A  little  Indian  boy 

Followed  him  everywhere, 
Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 
The  hunter's  meal  to  share." 

You  would  bask  the  more  unrestrictedly  in 
Harry's  presence  did  you  not  see  in  him  your 
unlucky  self;  and  while  he  is  speaking  you 
feverishly  go  over  and  over  parts  of  your  own 
piece. 

As  Harry  approaches  the  end,  his  pace  grows 
faster  and  faster,  until  at  a  gallop  he  dashes 
through  the  concluding  stanza,  offers  a  second 

[so 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


bob  in  lieu  of  other  punctuation,  long  lacking, 
and  clumps  back  to  his  seat,  where  he  grins 
rapturously,  as  if  he  had  at  last  had  a  tooth 
pulled. 

How  you  envy  Harry's  light-heartedness  as 
with  bated  breath  you  strain 
your  ears  for  the  next  an- 
nouncement ! 

This  proves  to  be  "Nina 
Gottlob.  Composition: 
'Kindness.'"  After  Nina 
somebody  else,  not  you,  is 
summoned;  and  thus  name 
after  name  is  read,  with  you 
hanging  on  by  your  very 
eyebrows,  before,  at  the  most 
unexpected  moment,  come  to 
you,  like  the  crack  o'  doom, 
the  words:  "Johnny  Walker. 
Recitation:  'The  Soldier  of 
the  Rhine.'" 
The  teacher  looks  at  you  expectantly.  Snoopie 
trips  you  as  you  tower  into  the  aisle.  Oh,  the 
tremendous  distance  which  you,  all  feet  and 
arms,  traverse  in  getting  to  the  platform!  You 
mount;  and  here  you  stand,  a  giant,  and  bow. 

[52] 


"NINA  GOTTLOB.    COM 
POSITION:    'KINDNESS" 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Away  below,  and  stretching  into  space  remote, 
are  faces  of  friends  and  enemies  —  the  ones 
(mostly  those  of  little  girls)  gravely  staring  at 
you,  and  the  others  twisted  into  hideous  grimaces 
calculated  to  make  you  laugh.  As  in  a  dream 
you  witness  your  mother  gazing  up  at  you  with 
beaming,  prideful,  but  withal  anxious  eye. 

Very  vacant-headed,  you  drag  from  your 
throat  a  thin  stranger  voice  which  says: 

"A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers; 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth 
of  woman's  tears," 

and  mechanically  maintains  the  narrative  for 
some  moments,  and  then  on  a  sudden  peters 

out! 

You  cast  about  for  something  with  which  to 
start  it  up  again,  but  you  light  upon  nothing. 
All  the  faces  in  front  watch  you  curiously, 
amusedly,  grinningly.  Helpless,  you  look  in 
the  direction  of  Billy  Lunt,  upon  whose  desk, 
as  you  passed,  you  had  laid  the  book,  that  he 
might  prompt  you,  if  necessary. 

Billy  has  lost  the  place,  and  is  desperately 
running  his  forefinger  adown  the  page. 

Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons—" 

[53] 


a  i 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

presently  he  assists,  in  husky  tones;  and,  as  if 
set  in  motion  by  the  vibrations,  your  voice, 
with  an  apologetic  "Oh,  yes,"  goes  ahead  once 
more. 

"  '  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort  her 

old  age, 
For  I  was  ay  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home 

a  cage; 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier  — " 

And  so  forth. 

Several  times  it  stops  again,  but  Billy  sits 
alert  to  fill  in  each  hiatus;  and  vastly  relieved 
in  mind  you  triumphantly  regain  your  seat, 
only  to  ascertain,  to  your  disgust,  that  you  are 
the  last  of  the  afternoon's  victims. 

Escape  from  this  despotism  of  school,  with  its 
penalties  and  speaking  and  other  disagreeable 
features,  which  combined  to  outweigh  any  pos- 
sible advantages  or  profit,  was  always  engaging 
in  prospect,  although  apt  to  be  unsatisfactory 
in  realization. 

You  longed  to  be  a  man.  You  wondered 
how  it  would  seem  to  walk  about  paying  no 
attention  whatsoever  to  the  old  bell.  Were  the 
people  outside  the  school  aware  of  their  fortu- 
nate state?     Gee! 

[54] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


It  was  an  odd  fact  that  in  the  week  the  finest 
and  most  interesting  days,  out  of  doors,  habit- 
ually   were    Monday,    Tuesday,    Wednesday, 


"'A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  LAY 
DYING  IN  ALGIERS'" 

Thursday,  and  Friday --and  Sunday.  The 
best  fishing  invariably  came  on  Monday,  Tues- 
day, Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday  -  -  and  Sun- 
day.    You  always  felt  the  most  like  having  fun 

[55] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

on  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday, 
Friday  —  and  Sunday.  What  was  measly  little 
Saturday,  eclipsed  so  by  these  other  days  all- 
glorious  without! 

If  your  folks  were  only  like  Snoopie's  folks 
you  could  play  hooky  once  in  a  while.  Snoopie 
asserted  that  his  father  "didn't  care."  Yours 
did  —  very  much. 

The  sole  recourse  which  remained  for  you 
was  being  sick;  and  insomuch  as  the  real  article 
was  annoyingly  scarce  with  you,  it  was  requisite 
that  you  manufacture  some  substitute. 

'Tis  a  spell  of  beautiful  weather  —  the  kind 
of  weather  that  came,  as  aforesaid,  on  Mondays, 
Tuesdays,  Wednesdays,  Thursdays,  Fridays  — 
and  Sundays.  Your  feet  lagged  to  school,  and 
your  heart  kept  pace  with  them.  Now  you  are 
idling  in  your  seat,  utterly  unable  to  work.  A 
vagrant  bee  hums  in  through  an  open  window, 
and  hums  out  through  another.  A  woodpecker 
drums,  as  on  a  sounding-board,  upon  the  spire 
of  the  Congregational  church.  A  blue  jay 
screams  derisively,  like  an  exultant  truant, 
among  the  elms  arching  the  street  in  front.  All 
these  things  upset  you,  stirring  as  they  do  the 
Wanderlust  of  boyhood. 

[56] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


The  sky  never  has  been  so  blue,  the  grass 
and  the  trees  never  so  green,  the  sunshine  never 
so  golden,  nor  the  air  so  mellow,  as  at  recess. 

You  hate  school.  You  don't  want  to  go  in. 
Snoopie  volunteers: 

"  Let's  play  hooky  this  afternoon,  and  go 
fishin'!" 

"My  father  won't  let  me,"  you  declare. 

"Aw,  come  on.  He'll  never  know,"  scoffs 
Snoopie. 

But  he  would,  just  the  same. 

The  only  chance  you  have  is  to  be  sick. 

It  is  over-late  to  be  sick  to-day,  for  there  is  a 
ball  game  after  school,  and  you  are  to  take 
part.  If  you  are  sick  this  evening,  when  the 
sports  of  the  day  are  finished,  your  mother  will 
accuse  you  of  having  played  too  hard,  and  such 
a  notion  would  turn  your  attack  into  a  boome- 


rang. 


You  will  be  sick  in  the  morning. 

Accordingly,  with  great  languidness  you  flop 
into  your  chair  at  breakfast,  and  carefully 
dawdle  over  your  food.  You  endeavor  not  to 
eat,  although,  as  luck  would  have  it,  the  menu 
is  one  of  which  you  are  particularly  fond.  But 
so  much  the  better. 

[57] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Why,  John,  you  aren't  eating!  Isn't  the 
breakfast  good?"  exclaims  mother,  instantly 
noting. 

"Yes,'m." 

"Then  why  don't  you  eat  it?" 

"Come,  eat  your  breakfast,  Johnny,"  sup- 
plements father. 

"I  don't  want  to,"  you  plead. 

"Don't  you  feel  well?"  asks  mother  anx- 
iously. 

"Not  very." 

"Where  do  you  feel  sick?" 

"Oh,  my  head  aches." 

"Give  me  your  hand." 

You  lay  it  in  hers,  and  she  thoughtfully  holds 
it  and  scrutinizes  you. 

"I  do  believe  that  the  boy  has  a  little  fever, 
Henry,"  she  says  to  father. 

"Maybe  he's  caught  cold.  Better  have  him 
keep  quiet  to-day,"  suggests  father.  "I'll  do 
his  chores  this  morning." 

You  really  begin  to  feel  ill,  the  word  "fever" 
has  such  a  portentous  sound.  And  you  thereby 
submit  the  easier  to  being  stowed  upon  the  sofa 
against  the  wall,  your  head  upon  a  pillow  and 
the  ready  afghan  over  your  feet  and  legs. 

[58] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"There's  so  much  measles  about  now;  don't 
you  think  we  ought  to  have  Dr.  Reese  come  in 
and  look  at  him?"  remarks  mother  to  father, 
in  that  impersonal  mode  of  conversation,  like 
an  aside,  which  seems  to  presuppose  that  you 
have  no  ears. 

"N-n-no,"  decides  father.  "I'd  wait  and  see 
if  he  doesn't  feel  better  soon." 

In  his  eye  there  is  a  twinkle,  at  which  mother's 
face  clears,  and  they  exchange  glances  which 
you  do  not  comprehend. 

The  first  bell  rings.  The  chattering  boys 
and  girls  on  their  way  to  school  pass  the  house. 
But  no  school  for  you,  you  bet!  And  the  last 
bell  rings.  As  you  hark  to  some  belated,  luck- 
less being  scampering  madly  by,  you  hug  your- 
self. Let  the  blamed  old  bell  bang;  you  don't 
care ! 

The  summons  dies  away  in  a  jarring  clang. 
Here  you  are,  safe. 

You  remain  prone  as  long  as  you  can,  but 
your  sofa-station  at  last  grows  unbearably  irk- 
some. It  is  time  that  you  pave  the  way  for 
more  action.  Mother  is  bustling  in  and  out  of 
the  room,  and  you  are  emboldened  to  hail  her: 

"I  want  to  get  up." 

[59] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Not  yet,"  she  cautions.  "Lie  quiet  and  try 
to  go  to  sleep." 

Sleep ! 

She  places  her  cool  palm,  for  a  moment,  upon 
your  forehead. 

"I  don't  think  that  you've  got  much  fever, 
after  all,"  she  hazards.     "But  lie  still." 

Out  of  policy  you  strive  to  obey  for  a  while 
longer,  but  every  muscle  in  your  eager  body 
rebels.  You  twist  and  toss;  you  stick  up  one 
knee,  and  then  the  other,  and  then  both  at 
once;  and  finally  a  leg  dangles  to  the  floor  over 
the  outer  edge  of  your  unhappy  bed. 

"I  want  to  get  up.  I  feel  lots  better,"  you 
whine. 

"No,"  rebukes  mother,  firmly.  "Papa  said 
that  you  were  to  keep  quiet." 

"But  I  will  be  quiet,"  you  promise. 

"W-well,  only  you  must  not  go  outdoors," 
she  warns. 

However,  anything  to  be  released  from  that 
narrow  sofa;  so  off  you  roll,  and  apply  yourself 
further  to  the  delicate  business  of  gaining  health 
not  too  rapidly,  yet  conveniently. 

It  appears,  however,  that,  according  to  some 
occult  line  of  reasoning,  "a  boy  who  is  not  well 

[60] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


enough  to  do  his  chores  or  go  to  school  is  not 
well  enough  to  play"!  The  more  vigorous  you 
grow,  the  more  this  maxim  is  rubbed  into  you. 

When  the  afternoon  has  fairly  set  in,  you 
have  become  so  very,  very  well  that  in  your 
opinion  you  may,  without  risk  of  a  relapse, 
play  catch  against  the  barn  —  which,  of  course, 
would  be  a  preliminary  warming  up,  leading  to 
meeting  the  kids  after  school.  You  propose  the 
half  of  your  project  to  your  mother;  but  she 
sees  only  impropriety  in  it,  and  proffers  that  if 
you  really  need  exercise  you  may  finish  uncom- 
pleted chores! 

After  school  you  hear  the  other  boys  tearing 
around;  but  you  must  "keep  quiet" !  The  only 
consideration  won  by  your  suddenly  bursting 
health  is  intimation  from  mother  that  unless  you 
moderate,  you  will  be  deemed  strong  enough  to 
stand  a  "good  whipping." 

In  fact,  the  whole  bright  day  proves  more  of 
a  farce  than  you  had  anticipated.     What  is  the 
use  of  being  sick,  if  you  are  not  allowed  to  have 
any  fun  ? 

By  bedtime  your  mysterious  malady  is  by 
common  consent  a  thing  of  antiquity  and  in 
the  morning  you  go  to  school. 

[61] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

The  time  arrives  when  you  go  no  more. 
You  yourself  are  now  of  that  free  company 
whom  you  have  so  envied.  Yet  it  does  not 
seem  such  a  wonderful  company,  after  all. 
You  find  that  your  position  still  has  limitations. 
When  you  had  lived  within,  it  was  permitted 
you  to  pass  and  mingle  with  the  life  without; 
but  now  that  you  have  chosen  the  without,  not 
again  may  you  pass  within,  save  in  dreams. 


[62] 


CHUMS 


CHUMS 

DOX'T  you  remember  when,  your  mother 
laughingly  dissenting,  your  father  said 
that  you  might  have  him,  and  with  rapture  in 
your  heart  and  a  broad  smile  on  your  face  you 
went  dancing  through  the  town  to  get  him? 

There  was  quite  a  family  of  them  —  the  old 
mother  dog  and  her  four  children.  Of  the 
puppies  it  was  hard  to  tell  which  was  the  best; 
that  is,  hard  for  the  disinterested  observer.  As 
for  yourself,  in  the  very  incipiency  of  your  hesi- 
tation something  about  one  of  the  doggies  ap- 
pealed to  you.  Your  eyes  and  hands  wandered 
to   the   others,    but   invariably   came   back    to 

him. 

With  the  mother  anxiously  yet  proudly  looking 
on,  you  picked  him  up  in  your  glad  young  arms, 
and  he  cuddled  and  squirmed  and  licked  your 
face;  and  in  an  instant  the  subtle  bonds  of 
chumship  were  sealed  forever.    You  had  chosen. 

"I  guess  I'll  take  this  one,"  you  said  to  the 
owner. 

[65] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

And  without  again  putting  him  down  you 
carried  him  off,  and  home. 

How  unhappy  he  appeared  to  be,  during  his 
first  day  in  his  new  place!  He  whined  and 
whimpered  in  his  plaintive  little  tremolo,  and 
although  you  thrust  a  pannikin  of  milk  under 


his  ridiculous  nose,  and  playmates  from  far 
and  near  hastened  over  to  inspect  him  and 
pay  him  tribute,  he  refused  to  be  appeased. 
He  simply  squatted  on  his  uncertain,  wabbly 
haunches,  and  cried  for  "mama." 

You  fixed  him  an  ideal  nest  in  the  barn; 
but  it  rather  made  your  heart  ache  —  with  that 

[66] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


vague  ache  of  boyhood  —  to  leave  him  there 
alone  for  the  night,  and  you  went  back  many 
times  to  induce  him  to  feel  better.  Finally,  you 
were  withheld  by  your  father's:  "  Oh,  I  wouldn't 
keep  running  out  there  so  much,  if  I  were  you. 


/V» 


Let  him  be,  and  pretty  soon  he'll  curl  up  and 
go  to  sleep." 

Sure  enough,  his  high  utterances  ceased,  and 
nothing  more  emanated  from  him.  Whereupon 
your  respect  for  your  father's  varied  store  of 
knowledge  greatly  increased. 

In    the    morning   you    hastened    out    before 

[67] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

^ — —     ■  — ^«^—  — —        ■  ■■■■■— ^—-     ■  ■■      i^— ^     ■■■■■■  »  ! ———a 

breakfast  to  assure  yourself  that  your  charge 
had  survived  the  night;  and  you  found  that  he 

had.    He  was  all  there,  every 
ounce  of  him. 

What  a  wriggly,  roily,  awk- 
ward lump  of  a  pup  he  was,  anyway!  How 
enormous  were  his  feet,  how  flapping  his  ears, 
how  whip-like  his  tail,  how  unreliable  his  body, 
how  erratic  his  legs!  Yet  he  was  pretty.  He 
was  positively  beautiful. 

Your  mother  could  not  resist  him.  Can  a 
woman  resist  anything  that  is  young 
and  helpless  and  soft  and  warm? 
With  pictures  in  her  mind  of  ruined 
flowers  and  chewed-up  household 
furnishings,  she  gingerly  stooped  down  to  pet 
him;  and  at  the  touch  of  his  silky  coat  she 
was  captive. 

"Nice  doggy!"  she  cooed. 

Upon  which  he  ecstatically  endeavored   to 

swallow  her  ringer,  and  smeared  her  slippers 

with    his    dripping    mouth,    and 

peace  was  established.  Thereafter 

mother  was  his  stoutest  champion. 

The  christening  proved  a  matter  requiring 

considerable  discussion.     Wrhen  it  comes  right 

[68] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


7 


down  to  it,  a  name  for  a  dog  is  a  difficult 
proposition.  It  may  be  easy  to  name  other 
persons'  dogs,  but  your  own  dog  is  different. 

Your  father  and  mother,  and  even  the  hired 
girl,  proposed  names,  all  of  which  you  rejected 
with  scorn,  until,  suddenly,  into  existence 
popped  a  name  which  came  like  an  old  friend. 
You  seized  it,  attached  it  to  the  pup,  and  it  just 
fitted.  No  longer  was  he  to  be  referred  to  as 
"it,"  or  "he,"  or  "the  puppy."  He  possessed 
a  personality. 

The  hired  girl  —  and  in  those  days  there 
were  more  "hired  girls"  than  "domestics"  — 
was  the  last  to  yield  to  his  swTay.  She  did  not 
like  dogs  or  cats  about 
the  house;  dogs  caused 
extra-work,  and  cats  got 
under  foot. 

But  upon   about  the 
third  morning  after  his 


arrival   you  caught  her 

surreptitiously  throwing 

him  a  crust  from  among 

the  table  leavings  that 

she  was  bearing  to  the  alley;  and  you  knew  that 

he  had  won  her.     Aye,  he  had  won  her.    You 


[69] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


also  found  out  that  he  much  preferred  a  crust 
thus  flung  to  him  from  the  garbage  to  any 
carefully  prepared  mess  of  more  wholesome 
food. 

Probably  this  subtle  flattery  pleased  the  girl, 
for  although  her  grimness  never  vanished,  once 
in  a  while  you  descried  her  smiling  through  it, 


YkupWrf 


«iv^ 


'•i 


i-  \. 


& 


in  the  course  of  a  trip  to  the  back  fence  while 
the  puppy  faithfully  gamboled  at  her  skirts  in 
tumultuous  expectation  of  another  fall  of  manna. 
He  grew  visibly  —  like  the  seed  planted  by 
the  Indian  fakir.  Enormous  quantities  of 
bread  and  milk  he  gobbled,  always  appearing 
in  fear  lest  the  supply  should  sink  through  the 
floor  before  he  had  eaten  his  fill.     Between 

[70] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


meals  his  body  waned  to  ordinary  size;  but, 
mercy!  what  a  transformation  as  he  ate!  At 
these  times  it  swelled  and 
swelled,  until,  the  pan  empty, 
the  stomach  full,  its  diameter 
far  exceeded  its  length. 

However,  there  was  a  more  permanent  growth 
than  this,  as  you  discovered  when  you  awoke 
to  the  fact  that  his  collar  was  too  tight  for  him. 
So  you  removed  it,  and  in  the  interval  between 
removing  the  old  and  getting  the 
new  properly  engraved,  his  neck 
expanded  fully  an  inch.  The  old 
collar  would  not  meet  around  it 
when,  as  a  test,  you  experimented. 
So  good-by  to  the  collar  of  puppyhood,  and  let 
a  real  dog's  collar  dangle  about  his  neck.  The 
step  marked  the  change  from  dresses  to  trousers. 
Not  only  bread  and  milk  and  other  mushy 
non-stimulating  stuff  did  he  eat, 
but  he  ate,  or  tried  to  eat,  every- 
thing else  within  his  reach.  Piece- 
meal, he  ate  most  of  the  door- 
mat. He  ate  sticks  of  wood,  both 
hard  and  soft,  seemingly  preferring  a  barrel- 
stave.     He  ate  leaves,  and  stones,  and  lumps 

[7i] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

of  dirt,  and  the  heads  off  the  double  petunias 
and  the  geraniums.  He  ate  a  straw  hat  and  a 
slipper.  He  attempted  the  broom  and  the 
clothes-line,  the  latter  having  upon  it  the  week's 


V    \'\ 


wash,  thus  adding  to  the  completeness  of  the 
menu. 

In  his  fondness  for  using  his  uneasy  teeth, 
new  and  sharp,  he  would  have  eaten  you,  did 
you  not  repeatedly  wrest  your  anatomy  from 
his  tireless  jaws. 

As  it  was,  you  bore  over  all  your  person,  and 

[72] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


particularly  upon  your  hands  and  calves,  the 
prints  of  his  ravaging,  omnivorous  mouth. 

Your  mother  patiently  darned  your  torn 
clothing,  and  submitted  to  having  her  own 
imperiled  and  her  ankles  nipped;  while  your 
father  time  and  again  gathered  the  scattered 
fragments  of  his  evening  paper,  and  from  a 
patchwork  strove  to  decipher  the  day's  news. 

And  "Look  at  him,  will  you!"  cried  the  hired 


girl,  delighted,  indicating  him  as  he  was  indus- 
triously dragging  her  mop  to  cover. 

Well,  like  the  storied  peach,  he  "grew,  and 
grew."  Speedily  he  was  too  large  for  you  to 
hold  in  your  arms,  and  although  he  insisted 
upon  climbing  into  your  lap,  you  could  no  more 
accommodate  him  there  than  you  could  a  huge 
jellyfish.     He  kept  slipping  off,  and  was  all  legs. 

He  fell  ill.     Ah,  those  days  of  his  distemper 

[73] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

were  anxious  days!  He  wouldn't  eat,  and  he 
wouldn't  play,  and  he  wouldn't  do  anything 
except  lie  and  feebly  wag  his  tail,  and  by  his 
dumbness  place  upon  you  the  terrible  burden 
of  imagining  his  condition  inside. 

Here  came  to  the  rescue  the  old  gardener,  — 
Uncle  Pete,  black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  —  who 
gave  you  the  prescription  of  a  nauseous  yet 
simple  remedy  which  you  were  compelled  lov- 
ingly and  apologetically  to  administer  three 
times  a  day;  and  behold,  the  pa- 

tient was  cured.  ^Fll^  ^ou  didn't 
blame  him  any  (k^mW  for  rising  from  his 
bed;  and  you  £di&\)  wouldn't  have 
blamed  him  any  jfyfld^Ljfr  for  cherishing 
againstyoua  ^   strong  antipathy, 

in  memory  of  what  you  forced  down  his  throat. 
But  he  loved  you  just  as  much  as  ever. 

Now  he  developed  roaming  propensities, 
which  took  the  form  of  foraging  expeditions. 
Once  he  brought  back  a  five-pound  roast  of 
beef,  his  head  high  in  the  air,  and  buried  it  in 
the  garden.  Diligent  inquiry  exposed  the  fact 
that  the  beef  had  been  intended  by  a  neighbor 
for  a  dinner  for  a  family  of  six,  and  for  subse- 
quent relays  of  hash,  etc.    Your  mother,  with 

[74] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

profuse  apologies,  promptly  sent  over  a  sub- 
stitute roast,  the  original  being  badly  disfigured. 

Upon  another  occasion  he  conveyed  into  the 
midst  of  a  group  consisting  of  your  mother  and 
father,  and  the  minister,  guest  of  honor,  sitting 
on  the  front  porch,  a  headless  chicken,  still 
quivering.  You  were  commanded  to  return  the 
fowl,  if  you  could;  and  after  making  a  canvass 
of  the  neighborhood  you  found  a  man  who, 
having  decapitated  a  choice  pullet,  and  having 
turned  for  an  instant  to  secure  a  pan  of  hot 
water,  was  mystified,  upon  again  approaching 
the  block,  to  see,  in  all  his  level  back  yard,  not 
a  vestige,  save  the  head,  of  the  feathered  victim. 
When  you  restored  to  him  his  property,  he 
laughed,  but  not  as  if  he  enjoyed  it. 

Along  with  his  foraging  bent,  the  dog  acquired 
a  passion  for  digging.  One  day  he  accidentally 
discovered  that  he  could  dig,  and  forthwith  he 
reveled  in  his  new  power.  Huge  holes  marked 
where  he  had  investigated  flower-beds  or  had 
insanely  tried  to  tunnel  under  the  house. 

He  grew  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  stature.  He 
had  his  first  fight,  and  was  victorious,  and  for 
days  and  days  went  around  with  a  chip  on  his 
shoulder,  wThich  several  lickings  by  bigger  dogs 

[75] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


did  not  entirely  remove.  Out  of  that  first  fight 
and  the  ensuing  responsibility  of  testing  the 
mettle  of  every  canine  whom  he 
encountered  came  dignity,  poise, 
and  courage.  His  puppy  days 
were  over.  He  had  arrved  at 
doghood. 

What  sweet  years  ollowed! 
It  was  you  and  the  dog,  the  dog  and  you,  one 
and  inseparable.  When  you  whistled,  he  came. 
All  the  blows  you  gave  him  for  his  misde- 
meanors could  not  an  iota  influence  him  against 
you.  Other  comrades  might  desert  you  for 
rivals  of  the  moment,  but  the  dog  never!  To 
him  you  were  supreme.  You  were  at  once  his 
crony  and  his  god. 

When  you  went  upon  an  errand,  the  dog  was 
with  you.  When  you  went  fishing  or  swimming 
or  rambling,  the  dog  was 


with  you.  When  you  had 
chores  to  do,  the  dog  was 
your  comfort ;  and  when  you 
were  alone  after  dark  he 
was  your  protection.  With 
him  in  the  room  or  by  your 
side  you  were  not  afraid. 

[76] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


When  you  had  been  away  for  a  short  time, 
who  so  rejoiced  at  your  return  as  the  dog? 
Who  so  overwhelmed  you  with 
caresses?  Not  even  your 
mother,  great  as  was  her  love 
for  you. 

Did  you  want  to  frolic?  The  dog  was  ready. 
Did  you  want  to  mope  ?  He  would  mope,  too. 
He  was  your  twin  self,  and  never  failed. 


The  sun  and  you  were  up  together  on  that 
summer  morning,  and  the  dog  joined  you  as 
soon  as  you  threw  open  the  barn  door.  Almost 
you  had  caught  him  in  bed,  but  not  quite, 
although  he  had  not  had  time  to  shake  himself, 
and  thus  make  his  toilet. 

Intuition  told  him  that  such  an  early  awaken- 
ing meant  for  him  a  day's  outing,  and  he  leaped 
and  barked  and  wagged 
his  glee. 

You  worked  with  a 
will,  and  when  the  hired 
girl  summoned  you  to 
breakfast  the  kitchen 
wood-box  had  been 
filled,  and  all  the  other 

[77] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


jobs  laid  out  for  you  had  been  performed,  and 
you  were  waiting.     So  was  the  dog,  but  not  for 

breakfast.     He   was  waiting 

for  you. 

How  he  gobbled  down  the 

scraps  constituting  his  meal; 

never  pausing  to  chew,  and 
frequently  desisting  in  operations  in  order  to 
run  around  the  house  and  investigate  lest,  by 
hook  or  crook,  you  might  be  slipping  off  without 
his  knowledge ! 

Now  your  boy  companion's  whistle  sounded 
in  front ;  and  hastily  swallowing  your  last  mouth- 
fuls,  disregarding  your  mother's  implorations 
to  "eat  a  little  more,"  with  the  paper  packages 
containing  your  lunch  of  bread  and  butter  and 
sugar  and  two  hard-boiled  eggs  stuffed  into 
your  pockets,  sling-  t,nlfT" 
shot  in  hand,  out  you  i  W  V 
ipered;    and   the         Mitfn 


scampered 


dog  was  there  before     'ijjijj^^j^^j^^ 


^ 


you 

Along  the  street  you 
gaily  hied,  the  three  of  you,  until  the  over-arching, 
dew-drenched  elms  and  maples  ended,  and  the 
board  walk  ended,  and  you  were  in  the  country. 

[78] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Civilization  was  behind  you;  all  the  world  of 
field  and  wood  was  ahead. 

Don't  you  remember  how  balmy  was  the 
air  that  wafted  from  the 
pastures  where  the  meadow 
larks  piped  and  the  bobo- 
links* rioted  and  gurgled  ? 
Don't  you  remember  how 
the  blackbirds  trilled  in  the 
willows,  and  the  flicker  screamed  in  the  cotton- 
woods?  Don't  you  remember  how  you  tried 
fruitless  shots  with  your  catapult,  and  how  the 
dog  vainly  raced  for  the  gophers  as  he  sped 
like  mad  far  and  wide? 
Of  course  you  do. 

The  morning  through  you  trudge,  buoyant 
and  tireless  and  fancy-free; 
fighting  Indians  and  bears  and 
wildcats  at  will,  yet  still  un- 
scathed; roving  up  hill  and 
down  again,  scaling  cliffs  and 
threading  valleys,  essaying 
perilous  fords,  and  bursting 
the  jungles  of  raspberry- 
bushes;  and  you  guess  at  noon,  and  sprawl  in  the 
shade,  beside  the  creek,  to  devour  you r  nrn visions. 

[79] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

During  the  morning,  some  of  the  time  you 
have  seen  the  dog,  and  some  of  the  time 
you  have  not.     Where  you  have  covered  miles 

he  has  covered  leagues,  and 
more  than  leagues;  for  a 
half-hour  he  will  have  dis- 
appeared entirely,  then,  sud- 
denly, right  athwart  your 
path  he  hustles  past,  in  his 
orbit,  as  though  to  let  you 
know  that  he  is  hovering  about. 

While  you  are  eating,  here  he  comes.  He 
seats  himself  expectantly  before  you,  with  lolling 
tongue,  and  gulps  half  a  slice  of  bread,  and 
looks  for  more.  A  dog's  only  selfishness  is  his 
appetite.  He  will  freeze  for  you,  drown  for 
you,  risk  himself  in  a  hundred  ways  for  you, 
but  in  the  matter  of  food  he  will  seize  what  he 
can  get  and  all  he  can  get,  and  you  must  take 
care  of  yourself. 

The  lunch  is  finished,  and  the  dog,  after 
sniffing  for  the  crumbs,  sinks  down  with  his 
nose  between  his  paws,  to  indulge  in  forty  un- 
easy winks  until  you  indicate  what  is  to  be  the 
next  event  upon  your  program. 

L8o] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Presently,  however,  with  a  little  whine  of 
restlessness,  he  is  off. 

You  are  off,  too.  It  is  the  noon  siesta.  The 
air  is  sluggish.  The  birds  and  the  squirrels 
have  relaxed,  and  the  woods  are  subdued.  The 
strident  scrape  of  the  locusts  rises  and  falls,  and 
the  distant  shouts  of  men  in  harvest-fields  float 
in  upon  your  ear.  You  are  burning  hot;  but 
the  water  of  the  creek  is  cool  —  the  only  cool 
thing  in  your  landscape.  A  swim,  a  swim! 
Your  whole   being   demands   that   you   go   in 


swimming. 


The  dog  already  has  been  in  a  number  cf 
times,  as  his  wet  coat 
has  evidenced.  Fever- 
ishly following  the 
winding  stream,  envy- 
ing the  turtles  as  they 
plunge  in,  upon  your 
approach,  you  arrive 
at  a  bend  where  the 
banks  are  high,  and 
the  current,  swinging 
against  them,  halts  and 
forms  an  eddy.  Here  the  depths  are  still  and 
dark  and  beckoning. 

[81] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

To  strip  those  smothering  garments  from 
your  sunburnt  body  is  the  work  of  but  an 
instant,  and  in  you  souse,  not  without  some 
misgiving  as  to  possible  water-snakes  and  snap- 
ping-turtles,  but  spurred  by  a  keen  rivalry  as 
to  which  shall  "wet  over"  the  first. 

Oh,  the  glorious,  vivifying  thrill  that  per- 
meates you  as  you  part  the  waters! 

The  dog  again!     From  the  bank  he  surveys 


the  proceedings  with  mingled  curiosity  and 
apprehension,  and  finally,  with  a  whine  of 
excitement,  dashes  into  the  shallows  and  makes 
for  your  side.  You  are  neck-deep,  and  he  is 
swimming.  His  hair  feels  queer  and  clammy 
against  your  skin,  and  his  distended  claws  raise 
a  welt  upon  your  bare  shoulder  as  he  affection- 
ately tries  to  climb  on  top  of  you.  You  duck 
him,  and  grab  at  his  tail;  and  convinced  that 
you  are  in  no  immediate  danger,  he  plows  for 

[82] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


the    shore,    where    he    contents    himself    with 
barking  at  you. 

Despite  the  dog's  remonstrances  and  entreat- 
ies, you  sported  in  that  blissful  spot  until  the 
sun  was  well  down  the  west;  now  you  frolicked 
in  the  cool  eddy,  now  you  dabbled  amid  the 
ripples  of  the  shoals  just  below,  and  now  you 
dawdled  on  the  warm,  turfy  banks.     The  dog 


stretched  himself  by  your  clothing  and  went  to 
sleep. 

At  length,  with  blue  lips  and  chattering  teeth, 
and  a  ring  of  mud  encircling  your  mouth,  mark- 
ing where  years  later  the  badge  of  manhood 
would  appear,  you  donned  your  clothes,  and, 
weak  but  peaceful,  to  the  rapture  of  the  dog 
started  homeward. 

[83] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


He  did  not  know  that  you  were  going  home. 
When  you  had  left  home  in  the  morning  he  did 
not  know  that  you  were  coming  here.  He  did 
not  care  then;  and  he  does  not  care  now.  You 
are  doing  something,  and  he  is  a  partner  in  it; 
and  that  is  sufficient. 


ft-   Av%i 


Homeward,  homeward,  through  woods  and 
across  meadows  where  the  birds  were  gathering 
their  evening  store  and  voicing  their  praises  and 
thanks  because  the  sun  had  been  so  good. 
Homeward,  homeward,  not  talking  so  much  as 
when  your  faces  were  turned  the  other  way,  not 

[84] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

frisking  so  much  as  formerly,  and  with  the  dog 
trotting  soberly  near  your  heels. 

You  were  dead  tired,  the  three  of  you. 

When  you  were  about  a  block  from  the  house, 
the  dog  pricked  up  his  ears  and  trotted  ahead, 
to  wait  for  you  at  the  gate.  While  you  ate  your 
supper  he  slept  on  the  back  porch ;  and  after  his 
own  supper  he  slinked  straight  into  the  barn, 
to  bed. 

And  soon,  he  in  his  nest  up-stairs  in  the  barn, 
you  in  your  nest  up-stairs  in  the  house,  alike  you 
were  slumbering;  for  neither  could  possibly 
sleep  sounder  than  the  other. 

Years  sped  by,  and  the  dog  remained  an 
integral  part  of  the  household.  Such  a  quaint, 
quizzical,  knowing  old  chap,  with  an  impor- 
tance ridiculous  yet  not  unwarranted,  with  an 
individuality  all  his  own,  thoroughly  doggish, 
but  well-nigh  human.  He  was  affectionate 
toward  the  rest  of  the  family,  but  you  he  adored. 
He  might  occasionally  bluffly  growl  at  others, 
but  never  at  you.  You  could  make  him  do 
anything,  anything.  To  him  you  were  perfect, 
omnipotent,  and  with  you  at  hand  he  was  happy. 

You  emerged  from  the  grammar  school  into 

[85] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

the  hi^h  school.  Then  arrived  that  summer 
when  you  went  to  visit  your  aunt  and  uncle, 
and  stayed  three  weeks.  You  remember  the 
visit,  don't  you? 

And  when  you  disembarked  at  the  station  on 
your  return,  and  your  mother  was  there  to  meet 
you,  even  while  kissing  her  you  looked  for  the  dog. 

"Where's  Don?"  you  asked. 

"Why,  John,"  reproved  your  mother,  as  so 
often  she  had  jokingly  done  before,  "do  you 
think  more  of  seeing  your  dog  than  of  seeing  me?" 

This  silenced  you. 

But  when  you  had  entered  the  yard,  and  next 
the  house,  ungreeted  by  the  familiar  rush  and  vol- 
ley of  barks,  you  were  impelled  to  inquire  again : 

"Where  is  Don,  mother?" 

Mother  put  her  arm  around  you,  and  laid 
her  lips  to  your  forehead;  and  even  before  she 
spoke  you  felt  what  was  coming. 

"  Johnny  dear,  you  never  will  see  Don  any 
more,"  she  said ;  and  she  held  you  close  while  you 
sobbed  out  your  first  real  grief  upon  her  breast. 

When  you  could  listen  she  told  you  all  — 
how  they  had  found  him,  lifeless,  where  he  had 
crawled  under  the  porch;  how  they  had  buried 
him,  decently  and  tenderly,  where  you  might 

[86] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


see  his  grave  and  put  up  a  headboard;  how  they 
had  kept  the  news  from  you,  so  that  your  visit 
should  not  be  spoiled;  and  how,  all  the  way 
from  the  depot,  her  heart  had  ached  for  you. 

Thus  the  dog  vanished  from  your  daily  life, 
and  for  weeks  the  house  and  yard  seemed  very 
strange  without  him.  Then,  gradually,  the 
feeling  that  you  were  to  come  upon  him  unex- 
pectedly around  some  corner  wore  off.  You 
grew  reconciled. 

But  to  this  day  you  are  constantly  encounter- 
ing him  in  dreamland.  He  hasn't  changed,  and 
in  his  sight  apparently  you  haven't  changed. 
You  are  once  more  boy  and  dog  together.  This 
leads  you  to  hope  and  to  trust  —  indeed,  to 
believe  —  that,  notwithstanding  your  mother's 
gentle  admonition,  you  will  see  him  again,  in 
fact  as  well  as  fancy,  after  all. 


[87] 


IN    THE    ARENA 


O 
Q 

I* 
W 
K 
H 
O 

a 
u 
< 

w 

H 

O 

o 

w 


IN  THE  ARENA 

WHEN  a  boy  retorted  with  the  direct 
challenge,  "An'  you  da'sn't  back  it!" 
it  was  a  case,  if  you  did  not  wish  to  lose  caste, 
of  your  either  taking  the  aggressive  or  effecting 
some  honorable  compromise. 

It  was  difficult  to  explain  to  an  outsider,  to 
one  not  in  sympathy  with  the  duello,  the  deep 
significance  of  "da'sn't  back  it."  You  felt  the 
term,  but  you  could  not  elucidate  it,  save,  to 
some  extent,  by  example ;  you  yourself,  with  a  red 
spot  on  your  forehead,  a  scratch  on  your  nose, 
a  torn  collar  to  your  waist,  a  rent  in  your  knick- 
erbockers, and  a  proud  spirit  in  your  bosom, 
being  the  example. 

"Now,  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  were 
fighting  about,"  declared  your  mother,  holding 
you  prisoner  at  her  knee  while  she  stitched  your 
collar  so  as  to  make  you  presentable  for  supper, 

You  squirmed,  realizing  the  task  before  you. 

"Well,  we  were  playin',  an'  Ted  he  tripped 
me,  an'  I  said  he  did  it  on  purpose  (an'  he  did, 

[9i] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

too),  an'  he  said  he  didn't  an'  I  said  he  did,  an' 
he  said  I  was  a  liar  an'  da'sn't  back  it,  an'  I 
went  to  back  it,  an'  he  hit  me,  an'  — " 

"But  what  is  to  'back  it'  ?"  interrupted  your 
mother. 

"Why,  to  back  it  —  to  back  it,  you  know. 
He  said  I  da'sn't  back  it,  an'  I  had  to  or  else 
I'd  be  a  coward,  an'  he  hit  me,  an'  I  hit  him, 
an'  — " 

"But  how  could  you  back  being  a  liar?  I 
don't  understand." 

She  was  a  darling  mother,  yet  at  times  sur- 
prisingly dense. 

"I  did  back  it,  though,  just  the  same."  That 
ought  to  be  exposition  enough,  and  you  galloped 
on  with  your  narrative:  "An'  I  hit  him,  an'  he 
hit  me  right  on  the  forehead,  —  but  it  didn't 
hurt,  —  an'  I  —  an'  then  we  got  each  other 
down,  an'  I  was  gettin'  on  top,  an'  then  the 
kids  pulled  him  off,  an'  a  man  came  by  an' 
wouldn't  let  us  fight  any  more.  Ted's  ten,  an' 
I'm  only  nine." 

Thus,  with  a  little  valorous  touch,  you  finished 
your  story.  This  much  you  accomplished,  even 
though  you  evidently  had  failed  in  bringing  your 
mother  to  a  clear  perception  of  "backing  it." 

[92] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"John  had  a  fight  this  afternoon;  have  you 
heard  about  it?"  asked  your  mother,  gravely, 
of  your  father  at  supper. 

Father  looked  at  you  inquiringly. 

"What's  that,  John?  Fighting!  With 
whom?" 


"  '  SAY,  SPECK  SAYS  HE  CAN  LICK  YOU ' " 

It  was  a  portentous  moment. 

"Ted  Watson.  He  tripped  me  on  purpose 
an'  nearly  made  me  fall  when  I  was  runnin',  an' 
then  he  told  me  I  da'sn't  back  it.  But  we 
didn't  fight  long,  'cause  a  man  came  by  an' 
stopped  us." 

[93] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"You  can  see  he  scratched  his  nose,  and  his 
collar  was  torn  almost  off  his  shirt/'  supple- 
mented your  mother. 

"I  tore  his  collar,  too  —  an'  I  bet  he's  goin' 
to  have  a  black  eye,"  you  hastened  to  state,  in 
palliation. 

"W-w-well,  I'm  astonished,  John!"  asserted 
your  father,  very  solemnly. 

You  fastened  your  eyes  upon  your  plate,  and 
could  think  of  nothing  to  say  in  rebuttal.  You 
had  stalked  homeward  a  hero,  fondly  expecting 
that  your  parents  would  be  proud  of  you,  who, 
only  nine,  had  combatted  a  boy  of  ten,  and  were 
"gettin'  on  top";  but  witness  how  they  had 
wet-blanketed  you! 

"I  told  him  that  he  ought  to  have  refused  to 
fight,  and  it  would  have  made  the  other  little 
boy  ashamed,"  informed  your  mother. 

"By  all  means,"  approved  your  father. 

Coming  from  your  mother,  the  advice,  while 
of  course  absurd,  had  not  seemed  so  strange; 
after  all,  she  never  had  been  a  boy,  and  girls 
didn't  fight;  but  your  father's  traitorous  ac- 
quiescence goaded  you  to  desperation. 

"Did  you  ever  da'sn't  back  it  when  you  were 
a   boy   like   me,    papa?"    you   appealed;   and 

[94] ' 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


although  you  were  not  fully  cognizant  of  the 
fact,  you  had  him  hip  and  thigh. 

He  danced  at  your  mother,  and  had  vou 
been  looking  at  him  instead  of  still  eying  your 
plate,  you  would  have  seen  his  mouth  twitch  in 
a  funny  way. 

"You  do  as  mama  says.  She's  always  right," 
he  answered,  and  you  had  a  dim  suspicion  that 
he  was  begging  the  question. 

The  little  encounter  between  Ted  and  you 
was  described  much  more  quickly  than  it  had 
occurred.  The  duello  as  practised  in  your  corps 
did  not  admit  of  undue  precipitancy  in  falling 
to  blows.  A  certain  amount  of  palaver  was 
obligatory  first  —  an  exchange  of  witticism  and 
defiance,  beyond  which,  as  often  as  not,  one  did 
not  proceed. 

When  Ted  had  tripped  you,  and  you  had 
angrily  accused  him  of  having  done  it  on  pur- 
pose, he  had  denied  it  just  as  angrily; 

"Didn't,  neither!" 

"Did't,  either!"  said  you. 

" Didn't,  neither!"  said  he. 

"Did't,  either!',  said  you. 

"Didn't,  neither.     You're  a  liar!"  said  he. 

"Did't,  either.     You're  another!"  said  vou. 

[95] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"  You're  another  'nother!"  said  he. 

"You're  twice  as  big  as  anything  you  can 
call  me!"  said  you  —  a  crusher,  and  quite 
unanswerable. 

"You're  twice  as  big  as  that,  an'  you  da'sn't 
back  it!"  said  he,  also  scoring  a  point. 


"  YOU  LET  YOUR  FOLLOWING  FEEL 
YOUR  MUSCLE" 

"He  says  you  da'sn't  back  it!  Ya-a-a-a-ah! 
he  says  you  da'sn't  back  it!"  gibed  the  boys 
about  you,  glorying  in  the  crisis. 

Ted  and  you  were  now  uncomfortably  in  the 
center  of  a  circle  which  was  ever  being  increased 

[96] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

by  the  jubilant  cries  of  " Fight!  Fight!"  which 
summoned  spectators  from  all  quarters. 

"G'wan  an'  back  it!  You  can  lick  him!" 
urged  your  supporters. 

"Aw,  he's  'fraid  to!  He's  'fraid  to!"  scoffed 
your  rivals. 

Ted  and  you,  grimy  fists  doubled,  not  know- 
ing exactly  what  to  do,  faced  each  other. 
Neither  of  you  wanted  to  fight.  Fighting  was 
being  forced  upon  you.  You  were  to  amuse 
the  pitiless  crowd. 

"I  ain't,  either,  afraid,"  you  asserted  sullenly. 

"I  wouldn't  let  him  trip  me  up  that  way,  you 
bet,"  inspired  a  friend  on  your  right,  boldly. 

"An'  call  me  a  liar  an'  everything!"  added  a 
friend  on  your  left. 

Oh,  how  solicitous  of  your  honor  were  they 
ivho  were  not  to  do  the  fighting! 

"He  is  a  liar  if  he  says  I  tripped  him  on 
purpose,"  stoutly  reiterated  Ted,  slightly  quali- 
fying his  former  blunt  statement. 

"You're  another!"  you  returned.  "Anyhow, 
it  looked  as  if  you  tripped  me  on  purpose." 

You,  likewise,  were  hedging  a  mite. 

"There!  He  called  you  a  liar,  too!"  admon- 
ished the  circle  to  Ted. 

[97] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Then  he's  another,  an'  he  da'sn't  back  it," 
responded  Ted,  grimly  performing  his  duty. 

This  harmless  verbal  fencing  might  have  been 
continued  up  to  the  very  present,  and  the  ethics 
of  the  duello  not  have  been  violated,  had  not 
some  over-zealous  enthusiast  pushed  Ted  and 
you  together,  with  the  result  that,  in  fending 
each  other  off,  you,  according  to  the  eager 
verdict  of  the  highly  observant  critics,  "backed 
it,"  and  he  hit  you,  simultaneously;  whereupon, 
not  seeing  anything  else  left  to  do,  at  each  other 
you  went  like  a  couple  of  jumping-jacks,  until 
(fortunately,  you  held,  for  Ted)  the  approach 
of  the  man  caused  him  to  be  removed  from  on 
top  of  you. 

Flushed,  excited,  and  disheveled,  you  went 
your  way;  and  flushed,  excited,  and  disheveled, 
Ted  went  his  way.  Throughout  your  route, 
you  and  your  babbling  escorts,  with  many  a 
"Gee!"  and  "Darn!"  discoursed  upon  what 
you  had  done,  and  what  Ted  had  not  done, 
and  what  would  have  happened  had  the  fight 
lasted  only  a  minute  longer. 

Loudly  you  wrangled  with  them  as  to  which 
got  the  worst  of  it,  quite  blind  to  the  fact,  which 
now  you  are  free  to  acknowledge,  that  the  one 

[98] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


who  got  the  worst  of  it  was  your  mother,  for 
she  had  to  mend  your  clothes. 

She  was  always  getting  the  worst  of  it.  She 
was  the  unlucky  non-combatant. 

The  duello  produced  the  best  of  feeling  be- 
tween Ted  and  you. 


Fights  were  for  mu- 
tual  benefit.  Swelling 
dignity  and  biceps 
so  demanded  expres- 
sion that  they  could 
not  forever  be  grati- 
fied by  merely  play- 
fully poking  chums 
in  the  ribs. 

Therefore  it  is  plain 
why,  when  a  friend 
mischievously  re- 
ported to  you,  "Say, 
Speck  says  he  can 
lick  you,"  it  was  all 
that  was  required. 
Like  to  a  strutting  cockerel  who  hears  a  distant 
crow,  you  bristled  in  answer. 

"He  can't,  either.     I  can  lick  him  with  one 
hand  tied  behind  my  back." 

[99] 


ARE  THE  INVENTOR  OF 
A  PECULIAR,  IRRESISTIBLE  BLOW" 


YOU 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Fast  flew  the  news  to  Speck,  and  Speck 
promptly  resented  the  slur,  as  he  should.  The 
boys  of  the  neighborhood  were  pleased. 

Now  you,  and  likewise  Speck,  are  the  objects 
of  much  flattering  attention.  You  let  your 
following  feel  your  muscle,  and  they  let  you 
feel  theirs,  and  you  are  firmly  convinced  that 
yours  is  the  hardest.  Also,  you  are  convinced 
that  you  have  a  great  knack  at  fisticuffs,  and 
are  the  inventor  of  a  peculiar,  irresistible  blow 
which  you  deliver,  the  knuckle  of  the  middle 
finger  carefully  protruded,  under  your  warding 
left  arm.  More  or  less  secretly  you  have  de- 
monstrated it  while  " fooling"  with  your  com- 
panions. 

You  can  chin  yourself  six  times,  and  you  are, 
in  valor  and  strength,  a  boy  wonder. 

Your  companions  favor  you  with  adulation 
to  a  degree  compatible  with  their  own.  self- 
respect;  for  most  of  them,  too,  are  boy  wonders. 

Well  as  Speck  and  you  are  satisfied  with 
bravado  and  careful  avoidance  of  each  other, 
it  is  inevitable  that  you  meet. 

" There's  Speck  —  see?  Come  on;  you  ain't 
afraid  of  him!" 

You   have   committed   yourself   too   far   for 

[  ioo  ] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


graceful  retreat,  and  in  the  midst  of  your  crowd 
you  advance  boldly  to  join  Speck  and  his 
crowd. 

The  rival  clans  come  together  and  mingle, 
but  Speck  and  you  pretend  not  to  see  each 
other. 

"John  says  he  can  lick  you,  Speck!" 

Yes,  you  have  said  so,  but  it  was  under 
provocation  of,  presumably,  a  direct  challenge 
from  him.  However,  the  duello  does  not  thrive 
on  explanations,  and  Speck  and  you  are  in  the 
hands  of  your  friends. 

The  all-engaging  topic  has  been  broached. 
Speck  apparently  does  not  hear.  Maybe  the 
matter  will  be  dropped.     But  no. 

"He  says  he  can  lick  vou  with  one  hand  — 
aw,  Speck  1" 

"He  can't,  though,"  defends  Speck. 

"Speck  says  he  can't,  either,"  obligingly 
announces  his  backers. 

"Well,  he  can,  I  bet  you." 

"Bet  you  he  can't." 

"He'll  show  him  whether  he  can  or  not." 

"Huh!     I'd  just  like  to  see  him  once!" 

You  find  yourself  hustled  forward  and  set 
against  Speck,  who  in  like  manner  has  been 

[101] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


pressed  to  the  front.  Your  hands  hang  limply 
by  your  side;  so  do  Speck's.  You  feel  very  tame 
and  pale  and  artificial;  not  a  whit  mad;  not  a 


'KNOCK  THAT  OFF,  IF  YOU  DARE' 


whit    like    fighting.     The    pugnacity    is    your 
seconds'. 

Somebody  laboriously  balances  a  small  block 
on  Speck's  shoulder. 

"  Knock  that  off,  if  you  dare,"  bids  a  Speck 
chorus. 

"I  will  if  I  want  to,"  you  assert. 

[102] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Well,  do  it,  then!"  invites  Speck. 

"I  will  if  I  want  to." 

"Well,  do  it,  then!" 

"I  will  if  I  want  to." 

You  strive  to  work  up  steam  by  biting  your 
lips,  and  raising  your  voice,  and  spitting  fero- 
ciously into  the  dust;  you  are  assisted  by  the  irri- 
tating shoves  bestowed  upon  you  from  behind. 

"Well,  do  it,  then!" 

"I  will  if  I  want  to." 

Impatient  fingers  supply  you  also  with  a  gage 
of  defiance,  an  impertinent  sliver  laid  athwart 
your  collarbone. 

"Now  let's  see  Speck  knock  that  off!" 

Speck  disdainfully  lifts  his  hand  and  brushes 
the  offending  chip  to  the  ground. 

"Hit  him,  John!" 

"'Don't  you  stand  that!" 

"There!"  you  say,  tapping  him  gently  on  the 
breast. 

"There!"  he  answers,  tapping  you  a  little 
harder. 

"There!"  you  return,  tapping  him  harder  still. 

"There!"  he  retaliates,  tapping  you  yet  harder. 

Then  with  a  final  "There!"  that  breaks 
through   all   restraint,    and    amid    shrill,    rap- 

[  I03l 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

turous  cheers,  two  pairs  of  arms  begin  to  whirl 
with  wild  rapidity,  the  sole  thought  of  their 
owners  being  a  blind  offense  according  to 
hit-who-hit-can  rules. 

The  engagement  did  not  last  long.  A  hor- 
rified and  meddlesome  old  lady  interfered,  and 
after  informing  you  both  many  times  that 
"little  boys  shouldn't  fight,"  your  temperature 
down  again  to  normal,  she  sent  you  off  with 
your  disappointed  encouragers,  while  she  con- 
scientiously watched  you  out  of  sight. 

Up  to  date  the  question  whether  you  can 
lick  Speck  or  Speck  can  lick  you  is  no  further 
settled.  Henceforth  the  spirit  of  amity  pre- 
vailed between  you.  Mettle  had  been  proved, 
the  light  had  been  fought,  and  now  somebody 
else  must  furnish  entertainment. 

Although  victory,  actual  or  prospective,  of 
course  never  was  doubtful  (either  you  were 
winning,  or  the  other  fellow  was  winning,  ac- 
cording as  to  which  did  the  telling),  at  some 
times  it  appeared  to  a  spectator  more  decisive 
than  at  others. 

You  were  feeling  very  spunky  that  noon  when 
amid  your  preserves  you  descried  a  stranger 
boy;  but  civilly  you  challenged  him.     One  may 

[104] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


witness   two   bluff   but   wary   fox-terriers   thus 
approach  each  other,  accost,  and  investigate 

"Hello!"  you  wagged;  that  is,  said. 

" Hello,  yourself!"  wagged  he. 

"Say  —  what's 
your  name  ? ' '  you 
inquired,  as  you 
had  every  right 
to  do. 

"Puddin'tame; 
ask  me  again,  an' 
I'll  tell  you  the 
same,"  he  replied 
insolently. 

At  the  unmeri- 
ted  rebuff  you 
stiffened. 

"Better  not 
give  me  any  of 
your  sass! "  you 
growled. 

"Pooh!     What'll  you  do!"  he  growled  back. 

"I'll  show  you  what  I'll  do." 

"You  couldn't  hurt  a  flea." 

"I  couldn't,  couldn't  I?" 

"Naw,  you  couldn't,  'couldn't  I.'" 

[105] 


'TWO  PAIRS  OF  ARMS  BEGIN  TO 
WHIRL" 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Walking  circles  around  each  other,  after  this 
fashion  you  and  he  sowed  crimination  and  re- 
crimination, while  larger  and  larger  waxed  an  au- 
dience hopeful  of  seeing  them  spring  up  as 
blows. 

Only  when  the  flurry  came  did  you  discover 
too  late  how  much  taller  and  stronger  and  older 
than  you  he  was.  Your  bleeding  nose  showed 
this  to  you;  and  cowed  and  weeping,  you  re- 
treated in  bad  order. 

'Til  tell  my  big  brother,  an'  he'll  fix  you!" 
you  howled  threateningly. 

"Aw,  he  ain't  got  any  big  brother,"  jeered  the 
heartless  crowd,  who  saw  no  pathos  in  your 
abused  organ. 

That  was  true;  you  had  none. 

"I'll  tell  my  father,  then,"  you  wailed  angrily 
—  another  empty  boast;  and  still  sniffling  and, 
fearsomely  gory,  with  the  handkerchiefs  of  your- 
self and  your  one  faithful  companion  quite  ex- 
hausted, you  reached  the  haven  of  a  friendly 
pump. 

Yet  you  had  not  been  whipped  —  not  exactly. 

"Got  licked,  didn't  you?"  unkindly  com- 
mented various  friends  and  enemies. 

"I  didn't,  either!"  you  asserted,  indignant, 

[106] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"I  had  to  quit  'cause  my  nose  was  bleedin'.     It 

takes  more'n  him  to  lick  me." 

"He  gave  you  a  bloody  nose  just  the  samee." 
You  would  not  admit  so  much  as  that. 
"He  didn't,  either;  he  never  touched  my  nose. 

It  bleeds  awful  easy.     It  bleeds  sometimes  when 

you  just  look  at  it  —  don't  it,  Hen?" 


j^^dL 


[  I07l 


THE    CIRCUS 


THE   CIRCUS 

Time  :   When  "  You  "  were  a  Boy 
Place  :   Up-stairs  in  Hen's  Barn 

DRAMATIS   PERSON/E 

Hen  Schmidt,  Proprietor  and  Ringmaster 
You,  Proprietor  and  Contortionist 
Billy  Lunt,  Trapeze  and  Tumbling 
Tom  Kemp,  Trapeze  and  Juggling 
Nixie  Kemp,  Trapeze  and  Tight  Rope 
Fat  Day,  Clown 
Snoopie  Mitchell,  Everything 

Admission  —  Ten  Pins  to  All,  including  Grand 
Menagerie 


THE    CIRCUS 

CIRCUS  was  in  the  air.  Circus  had  been 
in  the  air  for  some  time,  exhaled  broad- 
cast by  village  billboards  and  fences,  and  the 
fronts  and  exposed  sides  of  numerous  buildings. 
Breathing  this  atmosphere,  small  wonder  is  it 
that  you  and  your  compatriots  were  circus- 
crazy,  and  cared  not  who  knew  it. 

The  circus  came.  From  half-past  four,  in 
the  pink  of  the  dawn,  until  nightfall,  it  was 
given  your  unremitting  aid  and  presence  —  the 
two  in  one.  Your  fellows  were  equally  assid- 
uous. Nothing  that  might  be  done  outside  the 
tent  was  left  undone;  nothing  that  mis:ht  be 
inspected  was  overlooked.  As  for  the  inside, 
some  of  your  friends  penetrated,  like  yourself, 
with  the  escort  of  father,  mother,  uncle,  brother, 
or  neighbor;  some,  like  Snoopie  Mitchell,  "smik 
under";  but  all  were  there. 

The  circus  went.  Behind  it  remained,  as 
evidences  of  its  visit,  the  still  contagious  bills; 
one  more  welt  in  the  shape  of  a  ring,  added  to 

[in] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


the  other  similar  but  older  welts  upon  the  face 
of  that  historic  pasture  patch;  and  a  burning 
ambition  in  the  breast  of  every  youth. 

Now  witness  each  back  yard  a  training-school 


for  tumblers,  trapeze-experts,  wTeight-slingers, 
jugglers,  bareback-riders,  and  tight-rope  walk- 
ers.    Right  among  the  foremost  were  you. 

"Hen  and  me  are  goin'  to  have  a  circus," 
you  vouchsafed  importantly  at  the  family  board. 

"Hen  and  who?"  queried  father,  quizzically. 

"Hen  and  me"  Why  fuss  with  grammar, 
when  greater  things  were  impending?  It  is  not 
what  one  says,  but  what  one  does,  that  counts: 
at  least,  according  to  your  copy-book  at  schcol, 
in  which  you  had  laboriously  written,  "Deeds, 
not  Words,"  twenty  times. 

"We're  goin'  to  give  it  in  Hen's  barn,  and 
you  and  mama've  got  to  come." 

[112] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"I  don't  know  that  I  can  get  away,  having 
just  been  to  one,"  stated  father,  gravely.  "I 
didn't  expect  another  so  soon." 

"I'll  come,"  comforted  mother.  "When  is 
it?" 

"We  dunno  yet;  but  everybody  that  gets  in 
has  got  to  bring  ten  pins  —  and  bent  ones  don't 
count,  either.     Hen's  mother's  comin'." 

uDo  you  think  we  can  spare  ten  pins?" 
inquired  mother  of  father. 

The  idea  seemed  preposterous  to  you,  with 
a  whole  cushion  bristling  on  the  bedroom 
bureau;  but  nevertheless  you  awaited,  with 
considerable  anxiety,  father's  reply. 

"I  guess  so,"  answered  father.  "But  mem- 
bers of  the  performers'  families  ought  to  go  in 
free.     How's  that,  John?" 

You  shook  your  head  decidedly.  Such  a 
suggestion  must  be  nipped  in  the  bud. 

"Naw,  sir!     Everybody  has  to  pay!" 

There  was  no  dearth  of  performers;  they 
were  as  plenty  as  ball-players,  and  you  had  an 
embarrassing  number  of  volunteers,  who  offered 
themselves  as  soon  as  the  news  of  your  circus 
spread  through  the  neighborhood. 

["3] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Snoopie  Mitchell  was  among  the  earliest. 

"Say,  I'll  be  in  your  circus,"  he  proposed. 
"I  can  skin  the  cat  twice,  an'  do  the  giant's 
swing,  an'  turn  flip-flops  both  ways,  an'  — " 


"Pooh!  That's  nothin'.  So  can  I,"  scoffed 
Hen. 

"You  can't,  neither!"  contradicted  Snoopie. 
"Le'  's  see  you,  now." 

Hen  obligingly  cut  a  caper. 

[•Hi 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Aw,  gee!"  sneered  the  redoubtable  Snoopie, 
in  high  scorn.  "That  ain't  no  hand-spring! 
That's  a  cart-wheel!  Anybody  can  turn  a  cart- 
wheel! Aw,  gee!  Lookee  here!  Here's  the 
way  you  did."    He  demonstrated.     "Lookee!" 

and    again    he   demonstrated.  —  "  That's   a 

reg'lar  hand-spring." 

"  Well  —  I  can  do  it,  only  my  back's  lame," 
faltered  the  abashed  Hen.  "And  I  can  skin 
the  cat,  too.     Can't  I,  John?" 

You  nodded. 

"But  I've  skun  it  twice,  an'  John's  seen  me, 
haven't  you,  John?"  trumpeted  Snoopie. 

You  nodded  confirmation  to  this,  also. 

"Yep,"  you  said;  "he  did,  Hen;  truly  he 

did." 

"Without  changin'  hands?"  insisted  Hen. 

"Of  course,"  asserted  Snoopie. 

Snoopie  was  accepted. 

Tom  Kemp  and  Nixie  Kemp  were  organizing 
a  circus  of  their  own,  but  consented  to  be  in 
yours  if  you'd  be  in  theirs. 

Over  Billy  Lunt  occurred  almost  a  fight,  be- 
cause a  rival  company  set  up  the  claim  that  he 
had  promised  them;  but  by  bribe  of  a  jews'- 
harp  he  was  won  to  your  side.    Fat  Day  was 

[ii5] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


asked  chiefly  on  account  of  his  pair  of  white 
rats,  which   would   prove   a  valuable   addition 

to    the    prospective    me- 
nagerie. 

"If  you'll  lemme  be 
clown,  I'll  bring  'em," 
consented  Fat. 

"But  John  he's  clown," 
explained  Hen. 

This  was  true.  Before 
advertising  for  talent, 
Hen  had  preempted  ring- 
master, and  you,  clown, 
as  the  choice  positions, 
which  was  only  the  part 
of  ordinary  discretion. 
"I  tell  you,  Fat:  you 
can  be  fat  boy,  and  wiggle  your  ears  and  make 
folks  laugh,"  suggested  Hen,  eagerly. 

"Uh-uh!  If  I  can't  be  clown,  I  won't  be 
nothin',"  declared  Fat.  "An'  you  can't  have 
my  white  rats,  either." 

Hen  looked  at  you  dubiously. 
"All  right.     I   don't   care.     Let  him,"   you 
assented  moodily,  kicking  up  the  dirt  with  your 
toe. 

[116] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

j 

"You  can  be  one  clown,  Fat,  and  John'll  be 
the  other,"  proffered  Hen,  with  fine  diplomacy. 
"And  you  and  he  can  make  b'lieve  fight,  and 
things.  We  ought  to  have  two  clowns,  you 
know." 

But  the  glowing  picture  of  the  two  clowns 
did  not  appeal  to  Fat's  imagination. 

"Naw,"  he  whined.  "If  anybody  else  is 
go  in'  to  be  clown,  I  don't  want  to." 

Accordingly  Fat  was  awarded  the  clownship, 
and  you  said  you'd  just  as  lief  be  contortionist, 
which  he  couldn't  be. 

Clowns  were  really  a  drug  on  the  market. 
Not  a  boy  but  aspired  to  the  chair,  and  it  re- 
quired no  little  tact  to  steer  them  into  other  lines. 

The  organization,  as  finally  effected,  was  as 
follows : 

Hen,  ringmaster. 

You,  contortionist. 

Billy,  who  could  hang  by  his  toes  and  do 
other  things  on  the  trapeze,  and  who,  as  a 
tumbler,  could  stand  on  his  head  (sometimes) 
without  touching  his  hands. 

Tom,  who  could  do  things  on  the  trapeze, 
and  who  was  a  juggler  learning  to  keep  three 
balls  going  in  the  air. 

[^7] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Nixie,  who  also  could  do  things  on  the  tra- 
peze, and  who  was  an  aspiring  (and  at  times 
almost  an  expiring)  clothes-line  walker. 

Fat,  who  could  wiggle  his  ears. 

Snoopie,  indefatigable,  marvelous,  a  genius 
of  one  suspender,  whom  a  special  providence 
seemed  to  have  endowed. 


Menagerie  (in  prospect):  Don,  your  dog; 
Snap,  the  Kemps'  dog;  Lunt's  cat;  Fat's  white 
rats;  Hen's  "bantie"  rooster. 

A  rehearsal  was  not  only  unnecessary,  but 
impracticable  as  well;  that  is,  a  rehearsal  in 
company.  However,  individual  practice  went 
on  daily,  and  not  a  member  of  the  troupe  but 
emulated  the  most  daring  feats  produced  under 
Barnum's  tent,  as  could  be  testified  to  by  the 

[118] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


most  casual  observer,  and  by  that  emergency 
Band  of  Mercy,  the  Sisterhood  of  Mothers, 
adepts  with  court-plaster  and  needle. 

"Oh,  John!"  sighed  your  own  mother. 
"How  do  you  manage  to  tear  your  pants  so! 
This  is  the  third  time,  and  in  the  very  same 
place!     Can't  you  be  careful?" 


"I'm  practisin'  splits,"  you  offered. 

'"Splits'?"  repeated  mother,  densely  igno- 
rant. 

"Yes.  You  straddle,  and  you  keep  on  strad- 
dlin',  and  see  how  near  you  can  come  to  sittin'; 
and  you've  got  to  get  up  again  without  usin' 
your  hands.  There  was  a  man  and  woman  and 
little  girl  and  boy  no  bigger  'n  me  in  the  circus 

[ii9] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

that  could  go  clear  down  till  they  touched.  I 
can  'most  do  it." 

"  John!"  exclaimed  mother,  in  horror.  Then 
she  noted  something  else.  "And  your  waist, 
too!" 

You  condescended  to  explain  farther. 

"Yes;  I  tumbled  off  the  trapeze  when  I  was 
swingin'.  Look  here!"  Pulling  up  your  sleeve 
you  proudly  exhibited  an  elbow.  It  was  an 
elbow  that  earned  you  distinction  among  your 
comrades,  although  Nixie  had  a  knee  which  he 
boasted  was  "skinned"  much  worse. 

The  date  of  the  circus  was  set  for  Wednesday 
afternoon,  and  that  morning  a  show-bill,  tacked 
upon  the  Schmidt  front  gate-post,  announced 
it  to  all  the  world. 

All  the  little  girls  of  the  neighborhood  were 
by  turns  flippant  and  wheedling,  and  boys, 
your  rivals,  were  positively  libelous  in  their 
derision. 

Schmidt's  barn-loft  had  long  been  empty  of 
hay  and  tenanted  chiefly  by  spiders  and  rats 
and  mice.  It  was  a  splendid  place  for  the 
circus,  a  commodious  tent  being  lacking. 

Throughout  the  morning  you  and  Hen,  as- 
sisted by  your  associate  performers,  labored  like 

[120] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


fury,  a  profound  secrecy  enveloping  your  oper- 
ations. No  one  except  Billy's  small  brother 
(he  having  sacredly  been  sworn  unot  to  tell," 
an  investiture  of  confidence  that  gave  him  a 
decided  strut)  was  admitted  to  gaze  upon  the 
advance  proceedings;  but  the  noise  of  hammer- 
ing and  other  preparations  was  carried  afar, 
together  with  a  cloud  of  dust  out  of  the  open 
loft  door. 

"Where  was  your  parade?"  asked  father  at 
noon,  when,  hot  and  excited  and  somewhat 
grimy,  you  feverishly  attacked  your  well-heaped 
plate. 

"Didn't  have  any,"  you  mumbled.  "Fat 
wouldn't  let  us  take  his  rats  out  on  the  street, 
'cause  he  said  they'd  get  away;  and,  besides, 
we    didn't   have   wagons   enough    for   all    the 


cages." 


But  to  the  timid  inquiries  of  the  little  girls 
during  the  morning  you  had  replied  boldly: 

"There  ain't  goin'  to  be  any  parade.  Of 
course  there  ain't!  Do  you  s'pose  we're  goin' 
to  let  everybody  see  what  we  got?" 

At  half -past  one  o'clock  the  public  was  invited 
to  ascend.  The  ticket-taker  was  Billy's  small 
brother  aforesaid,   and    never   was    receiving- 

[121] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


® 


teller  of  a  national  bank  more  vigilant  or  par- 
ticular. 

"You  didn't  gimme  only  nine!"   he  would 
accuse     shrilly.     "You     didn't,     either!    You 

didn't,  either!  You've  got 
to  gimme  another  pin  or 
you  sha'n't  come  in!" 

' '  I  gave  you  ten !  I  did ! 
I  did!  Didn't  I,  Susie? 
You  dropped  one." 

Peace  would  be  restored 
by  the  number  being  made 
up  through  the  prodigality 
of  a  friend,  and  the  ruf- 
fled damsel  would  pass  in. 
Your  mother  and  Hen's 
mother,  and  your  hired 
girl,  and  the  Schmidt 
hired  girl  arrived  together, 
their  appearance  causing 
a  flurry  and  contributing  to  the  circus  the  im- 
portance due  it.  Mrs.  Schmidt  panted  heavily 
after  the  toilsome  climb,  —  she  was  a  large, 
short-winded  woman,  —  and,  choosing  a  seat 
near  the  door,  fanned  herself  vigorously. 
A  few  boys,  after  poking  their  heads  above 

[122] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

the  floor  and  grinningly  surveying  the  scene, 
ended  by  trooping  in  with  apologetic  and  ban- 
tering mien.  But  in  the  main  the  spectators 
were  feminine. 

The  amphitheater,  constructed  of  boards  laid 
across  boxes,  in  two  lines,  slowly  rilled.  As  the 
etiquette  of  the  profession  required  that  circus- 
performers  not  be  seen  until  the  time  for  their 
act,  you  and  Hen  and  the  other  stars  remained 
in  close  seclusion,  huddled  in  the  dressing-room 
—  the  far  corner,  veiled  by  a  calico  curtain 
(from  the  Schmidt  clothes-press)  tacked  to  con- 
venient rafters.  Meanwhile  the  public  might 
enjoy  the  collection  arrayed  at  one  side  of  the 
loft,  where  was  conspicuously  exposed  the  sign, 
in  white  chalk:  "Managerie." 

In  a  soap-box  with  slats  across  the  front 
wrathfully  crouched  Lunt's  gaunt  gray  Thomas- 
cat,  who  had  been  rudely  awakened  from  a 
matutinal  slumber  in  the  Lunt  cellar  and  igno- 
miniously  confined.  At  regular  intervals  he 
uttered  an  appealing,  protesting  "Yow!"  while 
he  glared  through  his  bars. 

Next  to  him  was  Hen's  red  "bantie,"  also  in 
a  soap-box,  but  more  composed. 

Then  came  Don,  for  whom  no  cage  procurable 

[I23] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


was  ample  enough;  so  he  was  tied  to  a  nail, 
which  afforded  him  liberty  to  fawn  impartially 
upon  old  and  young,  and  occasionally  to  make 
frantic  endeavors  to  reach  you  in  the  dressing- 
room. 

Next  to  him  was  Snap,  the  Kemps'  black- 
and-tan,  miserable  in  close  quarters;  and  at  the 
end  of  the  row,  quaking  in  abject  terror  over 
the  proximity  of  so  many  enemies,  were  Fat's 
precious  white  rats. 

"Is  that  all  the  m'nag'rie  you  kids  got?  Aw, 
gee!"  sneered  the  invidious  boys  among  the 
spectators. 

"It's  more'n  you  got,  anyhow!"  you  and  Hen 
retorted  from  your  covert. 

"Don't  you  touch  those  rats!"  commanded 
Fat,  with  a  jealous  eye  out  for  meddling  fingers. 
"They're  my  rats." 

It  was  very  hard  restraining  the  members  of 
the  troupe  in  their  quarters  until  time  was  ripe. 
Fat,  his  face  streaked  in  red  and  white  water- 
colors,  and  wearing  a  costume  devised  by  his 
mother  from  large-figured  calico,  was  wild  to 
exhibit  himself;  and  Snoopie,  bursting  with 
prowess,  demanded  careful  watching  or  he 
would  anticipate  the  program. 

[124] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Stay  in  here,  darn  you!     You've  all  got  to 
wait  till  the  ringmaster  says  to  come." 

"Let  go  of  me, 
will  you!" 

"You  sha'n't  go 
out!  'Tain't  your 
circus!" 

"Who's  goin' 
out!" 

Signs  of  revolt 
manifested  them- 
selves. 

"Why  don't  you 
begin?" 

"Gee,  I'm  hot!" 
"If  you  don't  be- 
gin pretty  soon  I'm 
goin'  home,  and  I'll 
take  my  rats,  too!" 
So,    urged    from 
behind,  Ringmaster 
Hen  stalked  forth  and  announced: 
"We're  ready  to  begin  now." 
He  swaggered  and  magnificently  cracked  his 
whip  —  a  treasure  consisting  of  a  double  length 
of  leather  lash,  cut  by  the  shoemaker  from  a 

[125] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

square  of  oak  calf,  with  a  twine  snapper  and  a 
skilfully  whittled  stock. 

Fat  Day,  needing  no  second  summons,  im- 
mediately bolted  out.  He  gamboled  and  pranced 
and  grimaced  and  " wiggled"  his  ears,  to  the 
applause  of  the  amphitheater  and  the  tremen- 
dous excitement  of  the  menagerie. 

"  Lemwe  /     It's  my  turn  I"  besought  Snoopie. 

"No,  lemme!"  implored  Nixie. 

"  You  said  /  could  go  first,  didn't  you,  John  ?  " 
reminded  Billy. 

Privately,  you  thought  that  the  honor  should 
be  yours;  but  you  waived  your  rights  as  pro- 
prietor and  decreed: 

"Yes,  let  Billy  go  first,  'cause  I  promised." 

Out  went  Billy  and  distinguished  himself  by 
all  the  feats  in  his  repertoire,  after  each  one 
saluting  with  the  expansive  gesture  of  the  real 
professional.  Having  exhausted  the  trapeze, 
and  having  poised  for  a  breathless  instant  on 
his  head,  he  finished  by  vaulting  over  three 
saw-horses,  in  lieu  of  elephants,  and  plunging 
into  the  dressing-room. 

"Now  I'm  goin',"  asserted  Snoopie. 

"Naw;  it's  my  turn!"  opposed  Tom  and 
Nixie  together. 

[126] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


But  Snoopie  shoved  between  them  and  past 
you,  and  was  in  the  ring. 

Snoopie  Mitchell -- ragged,  wandering,  inde- 
pendent, but  at  times  despised  Snoopie  —  was 
as  one  inspired.  Never  before  had  he  such  a 
circle  of  witnesses,  and  the  wine  went  to  his 

brain. 

He  flip-flopped  frontward  clear  across  the 
loft  from  the  dressing-room  corner  into  Mrs. 
Schmidt's  lap,  and  flip-flopped  backward  to  the 
dressing-room  again;  and  bowed.     He  walked 
about  on  his  hands;  and  bowed.     He  stood  on 
his  head  ("That  ain't  fair!"  called  Billy.     "I 
did  that!")  longer  than  Billy  did,  and  while  in 
that  position  spit,  besides;  and  bowed.     He  did 
the  "splits"  farther  than  you  could,  and  kissed 
his  hand,  while  the  spectators  murmured  various 
acknowledgments  of  his  posture. 

He  rubbed  his  palms  and  lightly  sprang  to 
the  trapeze  dangling  from  the  beam. 

He  skinned  the  cat,  but  he  skinned  it  twice, 
and  half  into  the  third,  and  impishly  hung  poised, 
while    his    shoulder-joints    cracked    and    the 
Schmidt  hired  girl  moaned: 
"Howly  saints!" 

He  hung  by  his  toes  and  threw  wide  his 

[127] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


arms;  but,  suddenly  letting  go,  with  precon- 
ceived adroitness  fell  on  his  back,  amidst 
muffled  shrieks. 

He  chinned  himself,  but  he  did  it  ten  times. 

"Come  in!     That's  enough!"  you  ordered. 

He  obeyed  you  not. 
Instead,  he  hung  by  his 
knees;  he  hung  by  one  elbow 
and  swayed  and  kicked; 
he  straddled  the  bar  and 
went  around  it  faster  and 
faster;  and  with  feet  be- 
tween hands,  soles  against  it, 
he  went  around  that  way,  too. 

In  the  dressing-room 
reigned  despair  and  lament- 
ation. 

"Tain't  fair!"  wailed 
Tom,  hotly.  "I  was  goin' 
to  do  some  of  those  things 
myself." 

"So  was  I!"  declared  Nixie. 

Snoopie  was  now  juggling  balls  while  tra- 
versing the  official  tight  rope  stretched  between 
two  of  the  saw-horses. 

"Make  him  come  in,  Hen!"  you  called.    ■ 

[128] 


"^ 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Hen  snapped  his  whip  at  Snoopie's  bare  legs, 
and  brought  him  to  the  boards. 

"Quit,  will  you!"  snarled  Snoopie.  "Don't 
you  go  whippin'  mei  or  I'll  paste  you!" 

"You  darned  old  fool!"  you  scolded. 

He  wiggled  his  ears  —  wiggled  them  much 
more  than  Fat  could  his  —  and  twitched  his 
scalp,  accommodatingly  turning  to  right  and 
to  left  so  that  all  might  see. 

Then,  breathless,  crimson,  perspiring,  he 
walked  on  his  hands  into  the  dressing-room. 

"What  did  you  do  all  that  for?"  demanded 
you,  angrily. 

"Do  what?"  retorted  Snoopie.  "J  didn't  do 
nothin'!    What's   the    matter   with   you   kids, 

anyhow?" 

"  You  did ,  too !"  berated  Nixie .  "  You  showed 
off  an'  spoilt  everything.     I  ain't  goin'  out." 

"Don't  you  —  an'  we  won't,  either!"  cho- 
rused Tom  and  Billy. 

"Oh,  Jock!  Fat's  got  his  rats  and  he's  takin' 
'em  away  with  him!"  announced  Hen. 

' '  You  come  back,  there,  Fat !  Darn  you !  bring 
them  back!"  you  cried,  rushing  to  the  rescue. 

Too  late.  Fat  was  stamping  rebelliously 
down  the  stairs.     The  disintegration  of  Schmidt 

[129] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

&  Walker's  United  Shows,  through  jealousy, 
had  begun. 

"Aren't  you  fellows  comin'  out?  "queried  Hen. 

"Uh-uh!  'T  ain't  any  fun,"  grunted  Billy, 
spokesman. 

"They  say  they  won't  play  any  more,"  you 
reported  to  Hen. 

"I  guess  that's  all,  then,"  stated  Hen  to  the 
spectators. 

With  high  hoots  from  the  boys,  and  rustling 
of  dresses  from  the  ladies,  the  amphitheater  was 
emptied. 

"I  didn't  do  nothin',"  insisted  Snoopie, 
grinning.     "You  needn't  go  to  blamin'  meV 

But  nobody  answered  him;  and  with  a  de- 
risive, "Ya-a-a!  Your  old  show  ain't  worth 
shucks!"  he  scampered  below,  to  join  riotous, 
admiring  spirits  elsewhere. 

"How  was  the  circus?"  asked  father,  politely, 
at  supper. 

"Aw,  Snoopie  Mitchell  spoilt  it,"  you  accused. 

"What  was  the  matter  with  Snoopie?" 

"Why,  he  went  and  did  everything  'fore  the 
rest  had  any  chance  —  didn't  he,  mama!"  you 
asserted. 

[130] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


" Is  that  so?" 

Father  glanced  at  mother,  and  they  exchanged 
a  subtle  smile. 

"  What's  become  of  the  receipts  ?  "  he  inquired. 

You  did  not  comprehend. 

"  Papa  means  the  pins  you  took  in,"  explained 
mother. 

"Oh,  I  dunno,"  you  responded,  your  chief  in- 
terest justnow being  in  your  dish  of  strawberries. 


[131  J 


WHEN  YOU  RAN  AWAY 


WHEN  YOU    RAN  AWAY 

Oh,  the  noble  king  of  France, 

He  had  ten  thousand  men; 
He  marched  them  up  the  hill  one  day 

And  he  marched  them  down  again. 

FATHER  and  mother  not  only  cherished 
the  idea  that  "  it  was  good  for  boys  to  have 
some  work  to  do,"  but  they  cherished  it  in  a 
distorted  form.  'Twas  not  as  though  you  were 
opposed  to  work,  per  se.  Xo,  indeed;  there 
was  a  time  for  work  and  a  time  for  play,  and 
any  day  you  would  have  been  very  willing  to 
stay  out  of  school  and  run  errands  or  pile  wood 
or  rake  up.  Then,  work  would  have  been  (just 
as  your  copy-book  informed)  a  "privilege." 

But  witness:  only  Saturdays  and  after-school 
and  vacation  would  do  for  that,  and  the  privilege 
was  changed  into  a  hardship,  with  your  father, 
from  his  security,  recollecting  what  he  did 
"when  he  was  a  boy,"  and  evidently  taking  it 
out  on  you! 

For  "when  he  was  a  boy"  father  "had  to 

[135] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

work,"  and  rather  vaingloriously  (egotistically, 
to  say  the  least)  presented  himself  as  a  living, 
moving  argument  to  apply  to  your  case.  How- 
ever, he  was  of  little  weight  with  you  because, 
privately,  you  bet  with  yourself  that  he  never 
had  to  work  as  hard  as  you  —  never!  Other 
fellows  could  skip  off  fishing,  and  everything, 
while  you'd  got  to  pile  wood  or  rake  the  yard. 

"Can  I  go  fishin'  to-morrow?" 

With  a  bluffness  cloaking  sundry  misgivings 
you  laid  the  question  before  mother,  hoping  that 
she  would  unwittingly  answer  yes,  and  that  you 
might  entrap  her  into  a  family  division.  Alas, 
mother  was  not  to  be  entrapped. 

"Ask  your  father,"  she  evaded,  just  as  you 
had  feared  that  she  might. 

So,  reluctantly,  you  sought  father. 

"Well,  John?"  he  prompted  as  you  stood 
before  him. 

Sharpened  to  X-ray  acuteness  through  stren- 
uous sire-ship,  he  interpreted  perfectly  what  was 
forthcoming. 

"Can  I  go  fishin'  to-morrow?" 

"But  you  have  the  yard  to  rake,  you  know, 
don't  you?" 

"I'll  rake  it  after  school  next  week." 

[136] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


The  promise  tumbled  eagerly  out  for  inspec- 
tion, and  father  summarily  condemned  it. 

"You  promised  that  if  I  let  you  off  last 
Saturday  you'd  rake  it  this  week  — " 

"It  rained,"  you  faltered. 

So  it  did.  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday, 
and  Thursday  you  had  carefully  reconnoitered, 
estimated,  circled  the  prospect,  so  to  speak; 
given  the  yard  every  chance  within  your  power 
to  rake  itself,  and  thus  add  to  nature  phenom- 
ena; and  then,  on  Friday,  when  you  had  got 
all  ready,  had  come  the  rain,  and  balked  your 
farther  efforts. 

Yes.  You  had  done  your  best,  and  now  was 
it  for  you  or  yours  to  discourage  Providence? 
But  father  rashly  plunged  ahead. 

"I  guess  you'd  better  rake  and  have  it  done 
with.     Then  you  can  go." 

"I  promised  Snoopie  and  Fat  I'd  go  to-mor- 
row.    Fishin'   will  be  dandy  to-morrow.     It's 
always  best  right  after  a  rain." 
You  had  begun  to  whine. 
"John!" 

When  father  said  "John!"  in  that  tone,  and 
with  one  exclamation-point,  it  indicated  that 
your  cause  was  finally  and  flatly  dismissed.     An 

[i37] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

additional  exclamation-point  might  mean  com- 
mittal for  contempt.  Accordingly,  unwilling  to 
provoke  this,  after  sniffling  a  moment,  on  the 
safe  side  of  his  newspaper,  and  morosely  kicking 
the  porch  railing,  you  stalked  off,  slamming  be- 
hind you  the  inoffensive  gate,  and  quite  ripe 
for  any  desperate  deed  that  could  readily  be 
undone,  if  necessary. 

The  next  day  dawned  splendidly.  Never  was 
a  better  fishing  day  —  never!  Never  would  be 
another  so  good  —  never !  Yet  father  and 
mother  did  not  seem  to  care,  and  ate  breakfast 
as  indifferently  as  though  raking  the  yard  was 
fully  as  much  fun  for  a  boy  as  pulling  out 
bullheads ! 

From  in  front  somebody  whistled  persist- 
ently. 

" There's  Snoopie.  He  wants  me  to  go,"  you 
reminded. 

Still  remained  time  for  a  revision  of  the  pro- 
gram, if  —  if  — 

"I  hear  him,"  responded  mother,  mildly. 

"Run  out  and  tell  him,  so  he  won't  wait," 
suggested  father. 

Enveloped  in  sorrow  and  shame  you  emerged 
to  the  impatient  Snoopie  and  broke  the  news. 

[138] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"I  can't  go.  My  father  says  I've  got  to  rake 
the  yard." 

Snoopie  stared  in  amaze.  He  never  had  any 
yard  to  rake,  for  his  father  was  dead,  or  some- 
thing, and  his  mother  worked  out  by  the  day. 
He  never  had  to  change  his  clothes,  and  he 
could  play  hooky  whenever  he  pleased.  Some- 
times you  almost  envied  Snoopie. 

"Aw,  hang  the  old  yard!"  advised  Snoopie, 
incredulous.     "Come  on.     She's  a  daisy  day." 

"I  can't,"  you  confessed  miserably. 

"Pooh!  You  bet  I'm  goin\  tho',  all  the 
samee!    You're  missin'  it!" 

And  on  he  passed,  whistling,  with  ostentatious 
blitheness,  a  disjointed  tune,  leaving  you  to 
lean  disconsolately  over  the  fence  and  remark 
him,  and  then  to  retire  to  face  the  flinty  tyrants 
within. 

You  plumped  into  your  breakfast  chair,  and 
ruthlessly  banged  your  plate  with  your  knife, 
and  scowlingly  bolted  your  food.  But  nobody 
appeared  to  notice.  After  breakfast  the  rou- 
tine of  the  day  was  calmly  taken  up  as  usual. 
Father  went  down  town,  to  business;  mother 
bustled  about  household  duties;  Maggie  the 
girl  sang  as  she  removed  the  breakfast  dishes. 

[i39] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

It  seemed  to  be  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  you  should  rake.  For  this  was  such  a 
morning  made  —  raking.     You  raked. 

Higher  rose  the  sun,  and  higher  rose  your 
wrath.  Happily  scratched  the  poultry,  and 
viciously  you  scratched,  with  the  rake.  What 
was  your  life,  anyway,  but  one  unremitting 
round  of  coercion!  Who  cared  whether  you 
had  any  fun?  Nobody!  Other  boys  could  do 
as  they  chose;  but  not  you.  No;  not  you. 
You  were  always  being  made  to  do  things  that 
you  didn't  want  to  do.  You  were  nothing  but 
a  slave.  And  you  would  submit  to  it  no 
longer. 

The  darned  old  fools!  You  would  show 
them!     You  would  run  away! 

Then  —  then  (you  hoped)  would  come  upon 
that  household  the  time  when,  gathered  to- 
gether, one  member  would  say  to  another: 

"I  wish  that  Johnny  was  here." 

"  Yes,"  would  confess  father  ;  "  if  he  were 
only  here  he  might  go  fishing  whenever  he 
pleased.  I  would  be  kinder  to  him  ;  the  yard 
could  wait." 

"  And  I,  too,"  would  quaver  mother.  '  I  un- 
derstand, now.    I  used   to  send  him  after  a 

[140] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


yeast-cake,  and  never  think  how  tired  he  must 
be." 

"  And  I'd  never  mind  again  his  being  in  the 
kitchen,"  would  sob  Maggie  the  girl.  ''No, 
indeed.  He  should  have  all  the  cake  and  lumps 
of  brown  sugar  he  wanted." 

"Oh,  Johnny,  Johnny!"  would  wail  all. 
"Come  back  and  try  us  once  more.  We'll  be 
so  different." 

But  they  would  plead  too  late.  You  would 
be  far  away;  perhaps  at  the  very  moment  dying, 
unknown,  miserable,  forlorn  and  forsaken; 
dying  in  the  gutter  or  by  the  roadside,  of  star- 
vation and  exposure ;  and  the  people  who  found 
you  would  inquire,  among  themselves,  pity- 
ingly: 

"Who  is  he?     Has  he  no  friends?" 

And  the  answer  would  be: 

"None.  He  is  only  a  poor  little  outcast, 
driven  by  abuse  from  home." 

That  would  be  a  grand  way  to  die,  if  only  the 
household  would  know  about  it.  Your  eyes 
grew  wet,  while  your  heart  swelled  triumphant, 
as  the  picture  took  hold  upon  your  sympathies. 

The  aroma  of  fresh  cookies  floated  through 
the  kitchen's  open  door.     You  were  aware  that 

[HO 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Maggie  would  be  expecting  you.  When  warm 
cookies  were  heralded,  she  had  good  reason  to 
expect  you.  You  hesitated,  and  for  some  time 
you  held  off,  with  the  vague  purpose  of  spiting 
her  or  your  mother.  If  only  one  or  the  other 
would  try  to  coax  you  in !  But  one  or  the  other 
didn't.  So,  finally  (the  aroma  proving  beyond 
human  endurance)  you  tramped  moodily  in, 
and  from  the  fragrant  pile  abstracted  a  handful 
of  the  luscious  disks. 

Even  as  you  did  so  you  were  proudly  con- 
scious that  another  cooky  day,  and  the  pile 
would  await  your  coming,  in  vain.  Very  likely, 
after  you  were  gone,  they  would  not  bake 
cookies  any  more.  Or,  if  they  did,  the  dough 
would  be  all  salty  with  tears.  Maybe,  as  an 
almost  hopeless  resort,  mother  would  say: 

"Maggie,  bake  cookies  to-day  just  as  you 
used  to.  Leave  the  door  and  windows  open, 
and  perhaps  —  who  knows  —  our  Johnny  may 
be  lingering  about,  and  when  he  smells  them 
baking  he  will  understand  that  we  are  waiting 
and  calling." 

"Yes,  ma'am  —  who  knows?"  would  reply 
Maggie,  chokingly. 

You  also,  choked.     For  even  then  you  would 

[142] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


be  dead,  dead,  dead.     You  could  die  in  a  week, 
couldn't  you? 

You  gulped  down  the  last  mouthful  of  warm 
cooky,  and  suddenly  as  you  raked  you  waxed 
brighter.     Why  die?     Why  not  live   on,   and 
become  famous?     Would  not  that  be  far  better 
revenge?     Some  day,  then,  would  reach  house- 
hold ears  word  of  a  new  star  in  the  firmament  of 
glory;  a  name  would  be  read,  a  name  would  be 
spoken,  a  name  resounding  through  the  whole 
world,  name  of  intrepid  explorer,  dashing  leader, 
multi-millionaire,  potentate  over  savage  peoples, 
what-not.     And  father  would  say  to  mother: 
" Why  —  that's  our  Johnny!" 
"It  certainly  is!"  would  exclaim  mother. 
And  she  would  call  Maggie,  and  all  would 
discuss  the  strange  tidings.     Soon  the  village 
would  be  ringing  with  your  exploits. 

The  household  would  send  messages  to  you, 
of  course,  pleading  for  one  sign  of  forgiveness; 
for  a  visit,  a  token.  But  you  would  return  with 
scorn  their  missives,  and  ignore  their  entreaties. 
Or  would  it  not  be  well  to  heap  coals  of  fire 
upon  their  heads?  'T  was  a  difficult  matter  to 
decide. 
At  any  rate,  you  would  run  away.    That  very 

[143] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


afternoon  should  witness  you  steadfastly  plod- 
ding onward,  face  to  the  west,  fortune  and 
revenge  before,  ungrateful,  cruel  home  behind. 
When  tea  was  ready  Maggie,  and  then  mother, 
would  summon  you  in  vain. 

Mother  would  say  to  father: 

"Why,  I  can't  find  Johnny!" 

"Oh,  he'll  come,"  would  assert  father. 

But  you  wouldn't.  They  would  eat  supper 
without  you ;  they  would  be  alarmed ;  they  would 
inquire  among  the  neighbors;  they  would  search 
up-stairs  and  down;  nothing  would  give  them  a 
hint  —  or  would  it  be  a  more  subtle  role  to 
leave  a  note,  a  tear-stained  note,  with  simply 
"Good-by"  writ  within?  That  was  another 
point  to  be  considered 

However,  the  truth  would  dawn  upon  them. 
At  first  they  would  refuse  to  believe  it.  They 
would  think: 

"Oh,  he'll  be  back.     You  see  if  he  isn't." 

You  would  not  come  back.  Evening  would 
merge  into  night  —  but  no  Johnny.  The  night 
would  settle  down;  there  would  be  weeping, 
running  to  and  fro,  searching  and  calling,  and 
all  the  while  you  would  be  out  in  the  dark  and 
the  dew  (and  it  got  cold,  too,  in  the  middle  of 

[i44] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

the  night)  at  the  mercy  of  storm  and  prowling 
beasts. 

When  came  the  morn,  it  would  find  the  house- 
hold red-eyed,  distraught,  and  repentant  —  but 
still  no  Johnny. 

Possibly  the  minister,  in  church,  would  refer 
to  you  during  his  sermon;  not  mentioning  out- 
right your  name,  because  that  would  be  too 
direct  and  hard  upon  your  folks,  but  neverthe- 
less by  an  allusion  that  should  be  unmistakable. 
The  congregation  would  know  to  what  he  was 
referring,  and  all  would  turn  and  look  at  the 
family  pew  —  the  pew  of  shame. 

Your  desk  at  school  would  be  empty.  The 
news  of  your  departure  would  spread  about. 
Teacher  would  break  down  and  cry  when  she 
reached  your  name  in  the  roll-call,  and  as  a 
mark  of  respect  your  seat  would  not  be  given  to 
another,  ever.  It  would  remain  untenanted, 
sacred,  an  object-lesson  to  parents.  Maybe  it 
would  be  draped  with  crape,  like  the  desk  of 
Harry  Peters,  who  died.     Say! 

Yes,  you  would  run  away. 

You  were  unusually  quiet  and  subdued  that 
noon,  at  dinner.  It  was  the  quietness  of  re- 
solve, the  subduedness  of  pity.     Here  was  the 

[145] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


last  meal  that  you  ever  should  eat  at  this  board 
—  and  none  save  yourself  knew  it.  Ah,  what 
a  blow  was  about  to  fall  upon  the  household. 
What  a  secret  was  locked  within  your  breast. 

It  seemed  almost  a  missed  opportunity.  If 
the  folks  might  only  suspect,  and  try  to  make 
advances.  Then  might  you  coolly  rebuff  them, 
deliberately  freeze  them  out,  torture  them  with 
shallow  denials,  and  thus  enjoy  their  suspicions 
while  denying  them  your  confidence. 

But  the  meal  progressed,  and  nobody  acted 
curious.     That  made  you  mad. 

"All  raked,  John?"  asked  father,  kindly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

You  answered  him  as  briefly  as  was  possible 
and  safe. 

"That's  good.  Do  you  think  he  has  earned 
a  pair  of  white  rabbits,  mamma?" 

White  rabbits! 

"He  has  been  a  very  good  boy,  and  worked 
hard,"  assured  mother,  smiling  upon  you. 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  hinted  father,  also  smiling. 

Gee !  White  rabbits  were  a  serious  menace  to 
your  outworks.  You  perceived  your  defenses 
giving  way.  Stand  firm,  John;  stand  firm. 
You  have  resolved,  you  know;  don't  be  lured 

[146] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


by  tardy  bribes.     What  are  white  rabbits  to 
freedom,  and  revenge? 

No,  you  will  not  be  a  traitor  to  yourself. 
Let  the  white  rabbits  come  —  but,  like  much 
else,  they  will  come  too  late.  There  will  be  no 
John  —  no  Johnny,  no  —  no  Johnny  here  to 
give  them  to.  And  you  smile  in  sickly  fashion 
and  say  nothing. 

You  have  the  afternoon  before  you,  and  your 
preparations  to  make.  While,  wilfully  uncon- 
scious of  your  sinister  purpose,  the  household 
again  proceeds  about  its  routine  duties,  you 
make  ready.  You  will  not  carry  much  with 
you.  Maybe  you  will  take  nothing  at  all. 
Shall  you  leave  your  drawers  and  your  treasures 
untouched,  and  merely  fade  mysteriously  from 
local  ken,  or  shall  you  select  articles  enough  to 
signify  your  decision? 

Oliver  Optic's  boys,  when  escaping  from  the 
authority  of  a  harsh  step-father  or  uncle,  went 
away  with  their  possessions  either  slung  over 
their  shoulder,  tied  in  a  bandanna  handker- 
chief, at  the  end  of  a  stick,  or  else  contained  in 
a  trunk  toted  by  aid  of  a  wheelbarrow. 

With  tears  (tears  well  very  easily)  blurring 
your  eyes  and  occasionally  dropping  from  the 

[147] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

end  of  your  nose,  in  your  little  room  you  hastily 
overhaul  your  belongings. 

Upon  the  bed  (dear  little  bed!)  you  spread  a 
bandanna  'kerchief,  and  in  it  you  place  an 
extra  pair  of  stockings  and  your  best  necktie, 
and  —  well,  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  much  else 
worth  taking,  in  the  clothing  line.  A  boy 
doesn't  need  much;  one  outfit  can  last  a  long 
time.  Besides,  the  raggeder  you  get,  the  better, 
for  the  more  pitiable  will  be  your  plight.  Your 
pockets  already  hold  your  jack-knife  and  your 
jew's-harp,  and  thereto  you  add  your  burning- 
glass,  and  your  cap-pistol  (robbers  and  bears 
might  not  tell  it  from  a  real  pistol)  and  a 
fish-line. 

Cast  one  farewell  look  about  the  little  room 
(dear  little  room!).  It  shall  know  you  no  more. 
Does  it  hate  to  see  you  go  ?  But  it  mutely  im- 
plores in  vain.  You  settle  your  cap  firmly  upon 
your  head,  and  stifling  a  sob  over  the  pathos  of 
it  all  you  descend  the  stairs. 

You  stick  the  bandanna  packet  underneath 
your  jacket.  It  would  be  nice  if  the  household 
might  suspect  it,  and  still  not  see  it.  But  the  deli- 
cate medium  is  rather  difficult  to  attain.  Be- 
sides, it  is  too  late  for  them  to  try  to  stop  you ,  now. 

[i48] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Mother  is  in  the  sitting-room  as  you  pass 
through  the  hall,  kitchenward. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Johnny  boy?"  she 
hails,  cheerily. 

"Nowhere,"  you  falter.     "Just  off." 

You  pause,  irresolutely,  a  second.  If  only 
you  might  be  encouraged  to  go  in  to  her,  and 
with  strange  meaning  in  your  caress  kiss  her, 
while  she  wondered  at  your  tenderness;  then  in 
after  days  she  would  recall,  and  feel  all  the  worse. 

"Well,  be  sure  and  be  home  in  time  for 
supper.  We're  going  to  have  hot  biscuits  and 
honey I" 

What  a  callous  way  to  let  you  depart! 

Noting,  with  minute  care,  each  familiar 
object  —  ah,  those  inanimate  things;  they  know 
and  feel  bad!  — you  proceed  into  the  kitchen. 
Here,  right  before  Maggie's  eyes,  you  boldly 
provision  with  two  cookies  and  an  apple.  You 
reck  not  whether  she  sees,  or  not;  the  die  is 
cast.  You  defiantly  press  on,  straight  out  of 
the  house,  and  through  the  back  gate. 

The  deed  is  done.  You  have  gone.  You 
are  in  the  alley,  and  many  a  long  year  will 
elapse  before  that  back  gate  again  swings  to 
your  hand. 

[  i+9  ] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


You  wish  that  the  folks  knew— but  they  dont'. 
Your  heart  aches  for  yourself;  your  going  is 
so  unheeded,  the  piteousness  of  it  so  wasted. 

You  grow  angry,  and  stiffen  your  neck.  All 
right;  they  need  not  care,  if  they  don't  want  to. 
Perhaps  they  think  you  are  fooling.  You'll 
show  them --yes,  you'll  show  them!  Oh,  if 
they  would  only  call  after  you,  and  beg  you  to 
turn,  so  that  you  might  show  them.  You'd 
never  even  glance.     The  darned  old  fools! 

You  stanchly  round  the  alley  corner,  and 
march  away,  down  the  street.  Wild  horses 
cannot  drag  you  back.     You  wish  they'd  try. 

Two  whole  blocks  have  you  put  behind  you. 
Your  stern  pace  lags  a  bit.  With  the  sky  so 
blue  and  the  sun  so  bright  and  the  maples 
o'erhead  so  rustly  and  the  sidewalk  so  flecked 
with  gold  and  the  yards  and  houses  along  the 
way  so  comfortable  and  friendly,  really,  it  is 
getting  to  be  hard  work  keeping  up  steam.  You 
have  to  think  of  it  constantly,  or  your  fires  die 
down. 

The  darned  —  the  darned  old  fools! 

You  have  been  longer  in  traversing  this  third 
block.  Another  block,  and  the  maples  and  the 
sidewalk  and  the  comfortable,  friendly  houses, 

[150] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

cease;  the  country  begins.  W-well,  you'll  go 
that  far,  anyhow. 

D-darn  'em! 

You  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  street;  here 
is  your  Rubicon.  You  feel  that  once  started 
upon  that  country  road,  with  your  handkerchief 
slung  over  your  shoulder,  then  it  will  be  too 
late!  The  idea  rather  awes  you.  It  looks  a 
long  way,  into  the  world.  And  dying  does  not, 
somehow,  seem  the  attractive  revenge  that  it 
once  did.     You  slacken  —  and  halt. 

You  take  the  bandanna  packet  from  beneath 
your  jacket,  and  inspect  it. 

Humph!  Darn  'em,  you  meant  it  when  you 
started,  just  the  samee. 

You  uncertainly  move  forward  again.  If  it 
wasn't  for  those  white  rabbits  — .  You  walk 
slower.  You  blink  hard.  You  stop,  as  if  run 
down  —  which,  in  truth,  you  are.  You  blink, 
and  finger  the  cookies  in  your  jacket  pocket. 

Are  the  folks  at  home  missing  you?  Sup- 
posing that  they  find  out  you  have  run  away, 
and  as  a  punishment  deny  you  the  white  rabbits, 
after  all!  The  thought  stings.  You  hesitate, 
and  sitting  by  the  roadside  eat  the  two  cookies 
and  the  apple. 

[151] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


You  are  reminded  that  there  are  "  biscuits 
and  honey"  for  supper. 

Perhaps  —  perhaps  you  have  gone  far  enough. 
Perhaps  you'd  better  not  do  "it,"  this  time. 

When,  rather  sheepishly,  you  reenter  that 
back  gate,  you  encounter  no  signs  of  confusion 
and  agitation.  Although  it  seems  to  you  that 
you  have  been  gone  a  long,  long  while,  every- 
thing appears  serene  and  just  as  you  had  left  it. 
Nobody  notices  you. 

You  slip  up-stairs.  The  little  room  welcomes 
you;  you  eye  it  diffidently,  and  challenge  it  to 
ridicule  you;  but  it  only  welcomes. 

You  restore  to  their  places  burning-glass  and 
pistol  and  fish-line.  You  untie  the  bandanna 
handkerchief,  and  return  to  their  drawer  the 
stockings  and  the  best  tie.  You  fold  up  the 
handkerchief  itself,  and  put  it  away.  You  do 
not  need  them;  not  yet.  You  have  changed 
your  mind.  But  only  they  and  you  know  what 
a  narrow  squeak  of  it  this  peaceful  house  has 
just  had. 


[152] 


GOIN'    FISHIN' 


m  $ 


jj  -)\  ■"'.  "pRjfA  *V4* 


"'IT'S  NOTHIN'  BUT  A  SNAG!"' 


GOIN'    FISHIN' 

IT  was  twenty  feet  long,  and  cost  ten  cents  — 
a  whole  week's  keeping-the-woodbox-filled 

wages.  To  select  it  from  amid  its  sheaf  of 
fellows  towering  high  beside  the  shop  entrance 
summoned  all  your  faculties  and  the  faculties 
of  four  critical  comrades,  assisted  by  the 
proprietor  himself. 

"That's  the  best  of  the  lot,"  he  encouraged, 
not  uninfluenced  by  a  desire  to  be  rid  of  you. 

So  you  planked  down  your  money,  and  bore 
off  the  prize;  and  a  beautiful  pole  it  was — 
longer  by  three  feet,  as  you  demonstrated  when 
they  were  laid  cheek  by  jowl,  than  that  of  your 

crony  Hen. 

Forthwith  you  enthusiastically  practised  with 
it  in  the  back  yard,  to  show  its  capabilities, 
while  the  hired  girl,  impeded  by  its  gyrations, 
fretfully  protested  that  you  were  "takin'  all 
outdoors." 

Your  father  viewed  its  numerous  inches  and 

smiled. 

[155] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


You  clothed  it  with  hook  and  line,  an  opera- 
tion seemingly  simple,  but  calling  for  a  succes- 
sion of  fearful  and  wonderful  knots,  and  a 
delicate  adapting  of  length  to  length. 

Thereafter  it  always  was  ready,  requiring  no 
fitting  of  joint  and  joint,  no  adjustment  of  reel, 
threading  of  eye,  and  attaching  of  snell.     In 


AT  LAST  YOU  WERE  OFF3 


your  happy-go-lucky  ways  you  were   exactly 
suited  the  one  to  the  other. 

During  its  periods  of  well-earned  rest  it  re- 
posed across  the  rafters  under  the  peak  of  the 
woodshed,  the  only  place  that  would  accommo- 
date it,  although  in  the  first  fever  gladly  would 
you  have  carried  it  to  bed  with  you. 

[156] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

Half  the  hot  summer  afternoon  Hen  and  you 
dug  bait,  for  you  and  he  were  going  fishing  on 
the  morrow.  Had  you  been  obliged  to  rake 
the  yard  as  diligently  as  you  delved  for  worms 
you  would  have  been  on  the  verge  (for  the 
hundredth  time)  of  running  away  and  making 
the  folks  sorry;  but  there  is  such  a  wide  gulf 
betwixt  raking  a  yard  and  digging  bait  that 
even  the  blisters  from  the  two  performances  are 
totally  distinct. 

With  a  prodigality  that  indicated  at  the  least 
a  week's  trip,  you  plied  your  baking-powder 
can  —  the  cupboard  was  continually  stripped 
of  baking-powder  cans,  in  those  days  —  with 
long,  fat  angle  worms  and  short,  fat  grubs;  and 
topping  them  with  dirt  to  preserve  their  fresh- 
ness, you  set  them  away  till  the  morning. 

Then,  with  mutual  promises  to  "be  on  time,', 
Hen  and  you  separated. 

"I  suppose,"  said  father,  gravely,  to  mother, 
across  the  table,  at  supper,  "that  I  needn't 
order  anything  at  Piper's  (Piper  was  the  butcher) 
for  a  few  days." 

"Why  so?"  asked  mother,  for  the  moment 
puzzled. 

"We'll  have  fish,  you  know." 

[157] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Sure  enough!"  agreed  mother,  enlightened, 
and  glancing  at  you.  "Of  course;  Johnny's 
going  fishing." 

From  your  end  of  the  table  you  looked  keenly 
at  the  one  and  at  the  other  and  pondered.  If 
the  show  of  confidence  in  you  was  genuine,  how 
gratified  and  proud  you  felt!  But  was  it? 
Father  went  on  soberly  eating;  mother,  trans- 
parent soul,  smiled  at  you,  as  if  in  reparation, 
and  winked  both  eyes. 

You  grinned  confusedly,  and  bent  again  to 
your  plate.  Yes,  they  were  making  fun  of  you. 
But  who  cared!  And  you  had  mental  revenge 
in  the  thought  that  perhaps  you'd  show  them. 

You  turned  in  early,  as  demanded  by  the 
strenuous  day  ahead.  To  turn  you  out  no 
alarm-clock  was  necessary.  The  sun  himself 
was  just  parting  the  pink  hangings  of  the  east, 
and  on  earth  apparently  only  the  roosters  and 
robins  were  astir,  when,  with  a  hazy  recollection 
of  having  fished  all  night,  you  scrambled  to  the 
floor  and  into  your  clothes. 

Mother's  voice  sounded  gently  outside  the 
door. 

"Johnny?" 

"Yes;  I'm  up." 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"  All  right.  I  was  afraid  you  might  oversleep. 
Now  be  careful  to-day,  won't  you,  dear?" 

Again  you  assured  her.  You  heard  her  soft 
steps  going  back  down  the  stairs.  She  never 
failed  to  make  your  rising  her  own,  both  to 
undertake  that  you  should  not  be  disappointed 
and  to  deliver  a  final  loving  caution. 

Your  dressing,  although  accompanied  by 
sundry  yawns,  was  accomplished  quickly,  your 
attire  for  the  day  being  by  no  means  complicated. 
Your  face  and  hair  received  what  Maggie,  the 
girl,  would  term  ua  lick  and  a  promise,"  and 
kitchenward  you  sped. 

To  delay  to  eat  the  crackers  and  milk  that 
had  been  provided  was  a  waste  of  time ;  but  you 
had  been  instructed,  and  so  you  gobbled  them 
down.  On  the  kitchen  table  was  your  lunch, 
tied  in  shape  convenient  to  stow  about  your 
person.  It  was  a  constant  fight  on  your  part 
with  mother  to  make  her  keep  your  lunches  at 
the  minimum.  Had  she  her  way,  you  would 
have  traveled  with  a  large  basket;  and  what 
boy  wanted  to  be  bothered  with  baskets  and 
pails  and  things? 

Upon  the  back  porch,  where  you  had  sta- 
tioned them  in  minute  preparation,  had  been 

[159] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


awaiting  you  all  night  the  can  of  bait  and  the 
loyal  pole.  You  seized  them.  Provisioned  and 
armed,  you  ran  into  the  open  and  looked 
expectantly  for  Hen. 

From  Hen's  house  came  no  sign  of  life.  You 
whistled  softly;  no  Hen.  Your  heart  sank. 
Once  or  twice  before  Hen  had  failed  you. 
Affairs  at  his  house  seemed  to  be  not  so  sys- 
tematized as  at  yours. 

You  whistled  louder;  no  Hen.  You  called, 
your  voice  echoing  along  the  still  somnolent 
street. 

"  All  right,"  suddenly  responded  Hen,  sticking 
his  head  out  of  his  window. 

He  was  not  even  up! 

You  were  disgusted.  One  might  as  well  not 
go  fishing  as  to  start  so  late  and  have  all  the 
other  fellows  there  first;  and  you  darned  "it" 
gloomily. 

After  seemingly  an  age,  but  with  his  mouth 
full  and  with  other  tokens  of  haste,  Hen  emerged 
from  the  side  door. 

"Bridget  promised  to  call  me  and  she  forgot 
to  wake  up,"  he  explained. 

Had  Hen  your  mother,  he  would  have  been 
better  cared  for.     But,  then,  households  differ. 

.     ['Go] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


At  last  you  were  off,  your  jacket,  necessary 
as  a  portable  depository,  balanced  with  lunch, 
and  the  can  of  worms  snugly  fitted  into  a  pocket, 
over  the  hard-boiled  eggs;  your  mighty  pole, 
become  through  many  pilgrimages  a  veteran, 
sweeping  the  horizon;  and  your  gallant  old 
straw,  ragged  of  contour  and  prickly  with  broken 
ends,  courting,  like  some  jaunty,  out-at-the- 
elbow,    swash-buckler   cavalier,    every   passing 

breeze. 

As  you  and  Hen  hurried  along,  how  you 
chattered,  the  pair  of  you,  with  many  a  brag 
and  "I  bet  you"  and  bit  of  exciting  hearsay  I 
How  big  you  were  with  expectations! 

"By  jinks!  I  pity  the  fish  to-day!"  bantered 
"Uncle"  Jerry  Thome,  hoe  in  hand  in  his 
garden  patch,  stiffly  straightening  to  watch  you 
as  you  pattered  by. 

You  did  not  answer.  Onward  stretched  your 
way.  Moments  were  precious.  Who  could  tell 
what  might  be  happening  ahead  at  the  fishing- 
place  ?  Busier  cackled  the  town  hens,  into  view 
rolled  the  town's  sun,  from  town  chimneys  here 
and  there  idly  floated  breakfast  smoke.  The 
town  was  entering  upon  another  day,  but  you 
ah,  you  were  destined  afar  and  you  must  not  stay. 

[161] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

To  transport  your  pole,  at  times  inclined  to 
be  unruly,  with  its  line  ever  reaching  out  at 
mischievous  foliage  and  its  hook  ever  leaving 
butt  or  cork  and  angling  for  clothing,  was  an 
engineering  feat  demanding  no  slight  ingenuity. 
The  board  walk,  which  later  would  be  baking 
hot,  so  that  the  tender  soles  of  barefooted  little 
girls  would  curl  and  shrink  and  seek  the  grass, 
was  gratefully  cool,  blotched  as  it  was  with 
dampness  from  the  dripping  trees.  When  the 
walk  ceased,  the  road  lay  moist  and  velvety,  the 
path  was  wet  and  cold,  the  fringing  bushes 
spattered  you  with  diamonds,  and  the  lush  turf, 
oozing  between  your  toes,  gave  to  your  eager 
tread. 

Rioted  thrush  and  woodpecker  and  all  their 
feathered  cousins;  higher  into  the  silver-blue 
sky  climbed  the  sun,  donning  anon  his  golden 
robes  of  state ;  one  last  impatient  halt,  to  extract 
your  hook  from  your  coat  collar,  and  now,  your 
happy  legs  plashed  knee  over  with  dew  and 
clinging  dust,  you  had  reached  your  goal. 

You  and  Hen  were  not  the  first  of  the  day's 
fishermen.  As  the  vista  of  bank  and  water 
unfolded  before  your  roving  eyes  you  descried 
a  rival  already  engaged.     By  his  torn  and  sag- 

[162] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

ging  brim,  by  his  well-worn  shirt,  by  his  scarred 
and  faded  overalls,  draggling  about  his  ankles 
and  dependent  upon  one  heroic  strap,  you  rec- 
ognized a  familiar.  It  was  Snoopie  — ■  Snoopie 
Mitchell,  who  always  was  fishing,  because  he 
never  had  to  ask  anybody's  permission. 


/ 


"'JUS'  A  BULLHEAD'" 

Snoopie's  flexible  life  appeared  to  you  the 
model  one. 

"Hello,  Snoop!"  called  you  and  Hen. 

" Hello!"  responded  Snoopie,  phlegmatically, 
desisting  a  moment  from  watching  his  cork,  as 
he  squatted  over  his  pole. 

[163] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Caught  anything  yet?" 

"Jus'  come/'  vouchsafed  Snoopie.  "They 
ain't  bitin'  much.  But  yesterday  —  gee  I  you 
ought  to've  been  here  yesterday!" 

No  doubt;  that  usually  was  the  way  when 
you  had  to  stay  at  home. 

You  tugged  your  bait  from  its  tight  lodgment; 
you  peeled  off  your  coat  and  tossed  it  aside  as 
you  would  a  scabbard;  with  feverish  fingers, 
lest  Hen  should  beat  you,  hopeful  that  you 
might  even  outdo  Snoopie,  you  unwrapped  your 
gallant  pole  of  its  line,  and  selecting  a  plump 
worm,  slipped  it,  despite  its  protesting  squirms, 
adown  the  hook. 

The  favorite  stands  at  this  resort  were  marked 
by  their  colonies  of  tinware  —  bait-cans  cast 
away  upon  the  grass  and  mud,  some  compara- 
tively bright  and  recent,  many  very  rusty  and 
ancient,  their  unfragrant  sighs  horrifying  the 
summer  zephyrs.  You  sought  your  stand  and 
threw  in. 

From  his  stand  Hen  also  threw  in. 

An  interval  of  suspense  ensued.  The  placid 
water  was  full  of  delightful  possibilities.  What 
glided  therein  that  might  be  caught!  You  be- 
sought your  bobber  with  a  gaze  almost  hypnotic; 

[i64] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

but  the  bobber  floated  motionless  and  ob- 
durate. 

"Snoopie's  got  a  bite  I " 

At  the  announcement  you  darted  apprehen- 
sive glances  in  Snoopie's  direction.  You  were 
greedy  enough  to  harbor  the  wish  —  but,  ah! 

"Snoopie's  got  one!     Snoopie's  got  one!" 

Snoopie's  pole  had  energetically  reared  up- 
ward and  backward,  and,  as  if  at  its  beckoning, 
something  small,  black,  and  glistening  had 
popped  straight  out  from  the  glassy  surface 
before  and  had  flown  high  into  the  brush  behind. 

Snoopie  rushed  after,  and  Hen  and  you  dis- 
carded everything  and  rushed,  too. 

"Jus'  a  bullhead!" 

So  it  was,  and  quite  three  inches  long. 

Snoopie  ostentatiously  strung  it  on  a  bit  of 
cord  and  tethered  it,  at  the  water's  edge,  to  a 
stake.  Then  he  threw  in  again  and  promptly 
caught  another. 

Somehow,  Snoopie  invariably  did  this.  He 
was  lucky  in  more  respects  than  one. 

From  each  side  Hen  and  you  sidled  toward 
him  and  put  your  bobbers  as  near  his  as  you 
dared. 

"G'wan!"  objected  Snoopie,  with  shrill  em- 

[165] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

phasis.     "What  you  kids  comin'  here  for?     Go 
find  your  own  places.     I  got  this  first." 

Presently,  to  your  agony,  Hen  likewise  jerked 
out  an  astonished  pout. 

"Ain't  you  had  any  bites  yet?"  he  fired 
triumphantly  at  you. 

"How  deep  you  got  your  hook?"  you  replied. 

Hen  held  his  line  so  that  you  might  see.  To 
miss  no  chances,  you  measured  accurately  with 
a  reed.  Once  more  you  adjusted  your  cork, 
moving  it  up  a  fraction  of  an  inch,  and  you 
spat  on  your  baited  hook. 

Again  you  threw  in,  landing  your  now  irre- 
sistible lure  the  length  of  your  pole  and  line 
from  the  shore. 

"  Quit  your  splashin'  1"  remonstrated  Snoopie. 
"I  had  a  dandy  bite,  an'  you  scared  him  away. 
Darn  you!  can't  you  throw  in  easy?" 

The  ripples  caused  by  your  bobber  widened 
in  concentric  circles  and  died.  You  watched 
and  waited.  A  kingfisher  dived  from  his  post 
upon  a  dead  branch,  and  rising  with  a  minnow 
in  his  bill  to  show  you  how  easy  it  was,  dashed 
away,  laughing  derisively. 

With  a  quick  exclamation,  Hen  swished  aloft 
the  tip  of  his  pole. 

[166] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


" Golly!  but  I  had  a  big  nibble!  He  took 
the  cork  clear  under!"  he  cried. 

You  wondered  fiercely  why  you  couldn't  have 
a  nibble. 

As  if  in  answer  to  your  mute  prayer,  your 
bobber  quivered,  spreading  a  series  of  little 
rings.  An  electric  thrill  leaped  through  your 
whole  body,  and  your  fingers  tightened  cau- 
tiously around  the  well-warmed  butt,  which 
they  had  been  caressing  in  vain. 

"I've  got  a  bite!  I've  got  a  bite!"  you  called 
gleefully. 

Hen  and  Snoopie  turned  their  faces  to  witness 
what  might  take  place. 

Then  your  cork  was  stricken  with  intermittent 
palsy,  and  then  it  staggered  and  swung  as  though 
it  had  a  drop  too  much.  Your  sporting  blood 
aflame,  you  bided  the  operations  of  the  rash 
meddler  who  was  causing  this  commotion. 

The  cork  tilted  alarmingly,  so  that  the  water 
wetted  it  all  over.  With  a  jump  and  a  burst  of 
pent-up  energy  (no  cat  after  a  mouse  could  be 
quicker),  you  whipped  the  heavens  with  your 
great  pole;  but  only  an  empty  hook  followed 
after. 

"Shucks!"  you  lamented. 

[167] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"  Aw,  you  jerked  too  soon ! "  criticised  Snoopie. 
"Darn  him!  he  ate  all  my  bait,  anyhow!" 
you  declared.     "See?" 


(* 


"'BITIN'  AGAIN"' 


With  utmost  speed  you  fitted  another  worm 
and  very  smoothly  let  down  exactly  in  the  same 
spot. 

Scarcely  had  the  cork  settled  when  it  resumed 
its  erratic  movements.  Its  persecutor,  whatso- 
ever he  might  be,  was  a  persistent  chap. 

[168] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Bitin'  again?"  inquired  Snoopie,  noting 
your  strained  attitude. 

You  nodded;  the  moment  was  too  vital  to 
admit  of  conversation. 

"I  got  him!     I  got  him!     I—" 

You  had  exulted  too  soon.  Out  like  a  feather 
you  had  whisked  the  meddlesome  fellow,  but 
in  mid-air,  unable  to  maintain  the  sudden  pace, 
he  parted  company  with  the  impaling  steel. 
Down  he  dropped,  and  while  the  lightened  hook 
went  on  without  him  he  dived  into  the  shallows 
where  mud  meets  water. 

You  abandoned  your  pole;  you  plunged  after 
him.  Upon  hands  and  knees  you  wallowed  and 
grappled  with  him.  With  fish  instinct,  he  was 
wriggling  for  the  deeps  and  safety.  You  grasped 
him.  He  slid  through  your  clutch.  You  grabbed 
at  him  again  and  obtained  a  pinching  hold  on 
his  tail.     He  broke  the  hold  and  was  off. 

"Get  him!"  shrieked  Snoopie. 

"Get  him!"  shrieked  Hen. 

Desperately  you  scooped  up  the  slime.  Once 
more  you  had  him.  He  stabbed  you  with  his 
needle-like  spines,  but  you  flinched  not.  You 
hurled  him  inshore  and  tore  after,  not  allowing 
him  an  instant's  respite. 

[i69] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

There !  He  lay  gasping  upon  the  drier  bank. 
He  had  lost,  and  out  of  his  one  piggish  eye  not 
plastered  shut  he  signaled  surrender. 

Of  the  two  parties  to  the  wrestle  you  were 
much  the  muddier. 

"How  big?"  queried  Hen,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  'bout  as  big  as  the  first  one  Snoop 
caught,"  you  replied,  which  was  strictly  the 
truth. 

You  devoted  a  few  seconds  to  squeezing  your 
pricked  thumb;  then  pleasantly  aware  that 
several  new  arrivals  were  viewing  your  success, 
you  gingerly  strung  him  and  deposited  him, 
thus  secured,  in  his  native  element.  Here  he 
flopped  a  moment,  but  finding  his  efforts  use- 
less, sulked  out  of  sight. 

You  baited  up;  you  were  more  contented. 

Two  pole-lengths  from  shore  occurred  a  quick 
splash  and  a  swirl. 

"Gee!"  burst  simultaneously  from  the  three 
of  you;  and  you  stared  with  wide  eyes  at  the 
spot  where  the  bubbles  were  floating. 

"What  was  that?"  ejaculated  Hen. 

"A  big  bass,  I  bet  you,"  averred  Snoopie. 

Nobody  —  within  your  memory,  at  least  — 
ever  had  actually  caught  a  "big  bass"  in  these 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


haunts,  but  upon  various  occasions,  such  as  the 
present  one,  he  had  made  himself  known.  To 
doubt  his  existence  was  heresy.  He  was  here; 
of  course  he  was.  Nearly  to  see  him  was  an 
exploit  accomplished  by  many;  nearly  to  catch 
him  was  accomplished  by  only  a  few  less:  but 
really  to  haul  him  out  had  been  accorded  to  none. 

In  the  meantime  he  cruised  about,  in  his 
mysterious  way,  and  now  and  then  made  a 
rumpus  on  the  surface,  to  wring  a  tribute  of 
hungry  "Gees!"  from  the  astounded  spectators 
of  his  antics. 

You  gripped  closer  your  pole  and  barely 
breathed.  Perhaps  he  was  heading  in  your 
direction;  perhaps,  at  last,  he  would  accept 
your  worm,  and,  glory!  you  would  be  the  boy 
to  carry  him  through  town,  and  home!  Could 
anything  be  more  deliriously  grand? 

On  the  other  hand,  misery!  perhaps  he  was 
heading  for  Snoopie  or  Hen.  However,  he 
might  turn  aside. 

Silence  reigned;  the  atmosphere  was  tense 
with  expectation.  Another  swirl,  a  small  one, 
off  a  brush-pile  nearer  the  shore,  just  to  your 
left.  Cautiously  you  tiptoed  down  there  and 
craftily  introduced  your  tempting  hook. 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

The  cork  vibrated.  For  an  instant  you  lost 
your  breath.  The  cork  dipped.  You  poised, 
rigid  but  alert,  daring  to  stir  not  even  a  toe. 
The  cork  righted,  dipped  again,  and  slowly, 
calmly  sank  into  the  pregnant  depths. 

Furiously  you  struck.  Your  good  pole  bent 
and  swayed.     You  were  wild  with  excitement. 

"Say!  Look  there!  Look  at  John!"  ex- 
claimed Hen. 

"Hang  on  to  him!  Don't  let  him  get  away!" 
bawled  Snoopie. 

Spurred  by  your  down-curving  pole  and  your 
violent  endeavors,  they  scampered  madly  to 
your  succor. 

"Don't  you  give  him  slack!"  instructed 
Snoopie.     "He'll  get  loose!" 

"Don't  bust  the  pole,  either!"  warned  Hen. 

As  for  you,  you  were  fighting  with  all  your 
strength.  The  line  was  taut,  sawing  the  water, 
as  valiantly  you  hoisted  with  the  writhing  tip. 
Your  antagonist  yielded  a  few  inches,  only  to 
demand  them  back  again.  You  were  in  deadly 
fear  lest  the  hook  would  not  hold.  You  hoped 
that  he  had  swallowed  it.  But  who  might 
tell? 

At  any  rate,  you  were  determined  that  he 

[172] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

should  not  have  a  vestige  more  of  line  if  you 
could  help  it. 

"Can  you  feel  him?"  asked  Hen. 

"Uh  huh,"  you  panted  affirmatively. 

11  Gimme  the  pole,"  ordered  Snoopie. 

You  shook  your  head.  You  wanted  to  do  it 
all  yourself. 

Little  by  little,  in  response  to  the  relentless 
leverage  that  you  exerted,  your  victim  was  being 
dragged  to  the  surface.  Higher  and  higher  was 
elevated  your  pole,  and  the  wet  line  followed. 
The  cork  appeared  and  left  the  water.  Victory 
was  almost  yours,  but  you  would  not  relax. 

"It's  nothin'  but  a  snag!"  denounced  Snoopie. 

You  would  not  believe.  It  was  —  if  it  was 
not  the  big  bass,  it  was  something  else  wonderful. 

A  second  —  and  up  through  the  heaving  area 
upon  which  were  fixed  your  eyes  broke  a  black 
stem.  Swifter  it  exposed  itself,  and  suddenly 
you  had  hoisted  into  the  sunlight  an  ugly  old 
branch,  soaked  and  dripping,  wrenched  by  your 
might  from  the  peaceful  bed  where  it  long  had 
lain. 

Amid  irritating  jeers  you  swung  it  to  shore. 

"Well,  I  had  something  all  right  —  and  it 
was  a  bass,  too;  and  he  snagged  my  hook  on 

[173] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

me.     He  took  the  bobber  under  in  less'n  no 
time,  I  tell  you!"  you  argued  defensively. 

That  was  a  favorite  trick  of  the  "big  bass" 
and  other  prodigies  of  these  waters  —  to  be 


"YOU  LUXURIOUSLY  DINED" 

almost  caught  and  to  escape  by  cleverly  snagging 
the  hook. 

Hen  and  Snoopie  returned  to  their  stations. 
You  ruefully  twisted  your  hook  from  the  rotten 
wood  and  tried  in  a  new  place  for  bullheads. 

[174] 


When  You  Were  a  Bov 


You  tired  of  this  location  and  changed  to 
a  log;  and  tiring  of  the  log,  you  changed  to  a 
rock;  and  tiring  of  the  rock,  you  changed  to  a 
jutting  bank;  and  tiring  of  the  bank,  you  waded 
into  the  shallows,  where,  at  least,  the  flies  could 
not  torment  your  legs.  In  the  course  of  your 
wanderings  your  can  toppled;  you  snatched  at 
it  but  it  evaded  you,  gurgled,  and  gently  sank 
beneath.  You  borrowed  bait  from  more  or  less 
unwilling  brethren,  or  appealed  ~  to.-  the  most 
respectable  of  the  riffraff  cans  scattered  about. 
From  the  zenith  the  sun  glared  down  upon  your 
neck,  and  from  the  water  the  sun  glared  up 
into  your  face,  and  neck  and  face  waxed  red  and 
redder;  turtles  poked  their  heads  forth  and  in- 
spected you;  and  dragon-flies  darted  at  your 
bobber  and  settled  upon  it,  giving  you  starts  as 
you  thought  for  an  instant  that  you  had  a  bite. 
You  pricked  your  fingers  on  the  "stingers"  of 
vengeful  victims,  and  you  cut  your  feet  on  tin 
and  shell  and  sharp  root  and  branch;  you  lux- 
uriously dined  on  butter-soaked  bread  and  salt- 
less  eggs  (the  salt  being  spilled),  and  you  drank 
of  water  which,  in  these  scientific  later  days,  we 
know  with  horror  to  have  been  alive  with  deadly 
bacilli;  and  Snoopie,  lving  on  his  back,  with  his 

[*75l 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

hat  over  his  eyes,  tied  his  line  to  his  big  toe  and 
went  to  sleep. 

Finally,  spotted  with  mud  and  mosquito- 
bumps,  scarlet  with  burn  and  bristling  with 
experiences,  in  the  sunset  glow  homeward  you 
trudged,  over  your  shoulder  your  faithful  pole, 
and  your  hapless  spoil,  ever  growing  drier  and 
dustier  and  more  wretched,  dangling  from  your 
hand. 

"Mercy,  John!  What  do  you  bring  those 
home  for!"  expostulated  mother,  from  a  safe 
distance  surveying  your  catch,  none  thereof 
longer  than  a  clothes-pin. 

"Why,  to  eat,"  you  explained. 

And  she  fried  them  for  you,  her  very  self. 


[i76] 


IN    SOCIETY 


IN    SOCIETY 

YOU  looked  fine;  simply  fine!  And  well 
you  might,  for  had  you  not  just  gone 
through  with  the  ordeal  of  an  extra  bath  —  a 
process  which  even  when  regular  and  weekly 
nagged  you  almost  beyond  endurance,  and  now 
as  a  superfluity  certainly  ought  to  bring  recom- 
pense. It  seemed  to  you  that  if  a  boy  went 
swimming  summers,  during  the  season  inter- 
vening a  good  scrubbing  as  far  as  half-way  down 
his  neck  should  answer  all  purposes. 

With  your  face  shining  like  a  red  apple,  with 
your  hair  slickly  brushed  —  by  mother,  and 
your  fresh  waist  neatly  adjusted  —  by  mother, 
and  your  Sunday  jacket  and  knickerbockers 
faithfully  brushed  —  by  mother,  and  your 
shoes  blacked  and  harmoniously  buttoned  —  by 
mother  again,  there  you  stood  between  mother's 
knees  while  she  coaxed  into  an  expansive  knot 
your  blue  polka-dotted  tie. 

Then  she  turned  you  about  for  inspection. 

h79] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Well,  well!"  commented  father,  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  your  effect. 

Mother  settled  your  hat  delicately  upon  your 
smooth  crown. 

"Now,  be  a  good  boy,"  she  cautioned.  "Be 
polite,  and  don't  be  rough  in  your  play,  and 
remember  to  say  good-night  to  Helen  and  her 
mama,  and  don't  act  greedy  when  the  things 
to  eat  are  passed." 

She  kissed  you,  and  father  kissed  you,  and 
escorted  to  the  front  door  out  you  strutted. 

"Be  a  good  boy!"  called  mother  after 
you. 

You  decorously  yodeled  for  Hen;  Hen, 
arrayed,  like  you,  in  purple  and  fine  linen, 
decorously  made  exit  and  joined  you;  and 
decorously  the  two  of  you  walked  side  by  side 
up  the  street,  bound  for  the  "Daner  party." 

Along  the  way,  restrained  by  your  feeling  of 
spick-and-spanness  from  customary  gambolings, 
you  and  Hen  sought  relief  in  a  preliminary  re- 
view of  the  prospective  menu. 

"I  bet  you  we  have  ice-cream  —  I  seen  Mr. 
Daner  orderin'  it!"  avowed  Hen,  by  his  abun- 
dance of  enthusiasm  atoning  for  his  lack  of 
grammar. 

[.80] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"  Gee  I    I  hope  it's  chocolate  I ' '  you  exclaimed. 

"Or  strawberry  an'  vaniller  mixed!"  supple- 
mented Hen,  with  a  smack  of  anticipation. 

You  "geed"  again,  and  offered  an  unvoiced 
prayer  that,  whatever  the  flavor  or  flavors,  the 
dishes  be  large. 

On  ahead  was  disclosed  the  house  of  the 
party.  It  was  lighted  from  top  to  bottom,  and 
at  the  impressive  sight  your  courage,  buoyed  in 
vain  by  ice-cream,  chocolate,  or  strawberry  and 
vanilla  mixed,  began  to  sink. 

"You  go  in  first,"  you  suggested  to  Hen. 

"Naw,  sir!  You  I"  objected  Hen.  "You 
know  'em  better 'n  I  do." 

"But  I'll  keep  right  close  behind.  Honest, 
I  will,"  you  promised. 

"You  wouldn't,  either.  You'd  run  off  and 
leave  me  alone!"  accused  Hen,  suspicious  and 
diffident. 

With  the  question  of  precedence  still  unsettled, 
slowly  and  more  slowly  you  and  he  approached. 
Hanging  to  the  palings  of  the  fence,  in  front, 
were  the  luckless  (and  invidious)  uninvited; 
among  them  Snoopie  Mitchell,  of  course. 
Snoopie  never  missed  anything,  if  within  his 
reach,  and  he  wore  the  same  clothes  wherever 

[181] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


he  went,  be  it  fishing  or  into  the  creme  de  la 
creme  of  civilization. 

Your  arrival  was  the  signal  for  a  shrill  chorus 
of  jeering  cries;  why,  nobody  may  know;  yet 
they  caused  you  to  flush  with  an  unreasonable 
sense  of  shame. 

"Hello,  Jocko!"  greeted  Snoopie,  affably 
(Jocko,  and  not,  as  stated  the  family  Bible, 
John,  being  your  actual  name). 

" Hello!"  you  responded  feebly. 

"Hello,  Hen!"  continued  Snoop,  determined 
to  be  impartial. 

"Hello!"  said  Hen,  also  feebly. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  in?"  queried  Snoop.  "G'wan 
in!     What  you  'fraid  of?" 

"G'wan  in  yourself!"  you  retorted. 

"Well,  I  would  if  I  was  dressed  up,  you  bet!" 
asserted  Snoopie  —  oblivious  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  not  expected. 

"Huh!"  scoffed  Hen.  "You  ain't  invited! 
Ya-a-ah!" 

"I  know  it;  but  I  could  have  been  if  I'd 
wanted  to!"  declared  Snoopie,  insinuating  his 
superiority.     ' '  I  wouldn't  go  to  their  old  party ! ' ' 

"Good  reason  why!"  scoffed  you  and  Hen. 

This  brief  exchange  of  courtesies  having  been 

rite] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


accomplished,  attended  by  mocking  tongues  and 
glances  you  two  proudly  entered  the  gate,  leav- 
ing on  the  outside  these  your  social  inferiors, 
and  advancing  up  the  walk,  studiously  elbow  to 
elbow,  mounted  the  porch  steps. 

"You  ring!"  insisted  Hen. 

"No!    You!" 

Whereupon,  in  the  midst  of  the  discussion 
the  listening  door  opened,  and  into  the  daz- 
zling interior  you  sidled  together,  and  red  as 
peonies  received  your  welcome. 

On  the  one  side  of  the  parlor  were  clustered 
the  girls,  a  close  corporation  in  stiff  little  dresses 
and  stiff  big  sashes,  and  locks  wonderfully 
curled  or  tied  with  ribbons.  They  whispered 
and  giggled.  On  the  opposite  side  were  banded 
the  boys,  in  embarrassing  Sunday  clothes  and 
squeaky  shoes.  And  they  whispered  and  snig- 
gered. 

Betwixt  this  side  of  the  parlor  and  that 
stretched  a  seemingly  impassable  chasm,  which 
must  be  bridged.  Upon  busy  Mrs.  Daner, 
engineer-in-chief  of  the  occasion,  devolved  the 
task  of  establishing  communication. 

" Clap-in  and  clap-out!"  she  heralded  briskly. 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

The  little  girls  were  hustled,  still  giggling, 
into  the  adjoining  room,  and  the  folding  doors 
were  drawn.  You  boys  waited.  Presently  the 
doors  parted  for  a  crack,  and  Mrs.  Daner,  as 
official  announcer,  called,  between  them: 

" Harry  Peters!" 

"Aw,  Harry!"  derided  you  all.  Assisted  by 
obliging  hands,  Harry  stumbled  through  the 
crack,  and  the  doors  met  behind  him.  You  in 
the  outer  room  listened  breathlessly.  An  in- 
stant —  and  then  came  a  tremendous  burst  of 
clapping  and  laughter,  and  Harry,  blushing  and 
flustrated,  plunged  back  into  your  midst. 

"Aw,  Harry!  Got  clapped  out!  Aw,  Harry!" 

"I  did  it  on  purpose!"  averred  Harry,  stoutly. 
"I  guess  /  knew.  I  don't  want  any  girl  kissin' 
me,  you  bet!" 

"Henry  Schmidt!"  summoned  Mrs.  Daner. 

Hen,  being  notoriously  afraid  of  girls,  must 
have  blindly  plumped  down  into  the  very  first 
chair  available,  for  scarcely  had  he  entered  ere 
out  he  fled,  headlong,  in  dire  confusion,  be- 
fore a  volley  of  gay  voices  and  staccato  palms. 

"Johnny  Walker!" 

That  was  you.  You  had  been  hoping,  and 
now   you   had   arrived.    Beset   by   the   usual 

[i84] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


ridicule  —  Harry  and  Hen  the  leaders  in  it  — 
reluctantly,  after  all,  you  left  the  safe  society 
of  your  fellows,  and  slipping  through  the  fateful 
crack  uncertainly  looked  about  you. 

The  atmosphere  was  distinctly  feminine. 
Fourteen  little  girls  stood  each  behind  an  empty 
chair,  in  almost  a  circle,  and  eyed  you  roguishly. 
Nobody  spoke.  You  felt  as  graceful  as  a 
hippopotamus  and  twice  as  large. 

Your  wandering  glance  fell  upon  Mary 
Webster.  Mary  nodded  invitingly.  And  upon 
Lucy  Rogers.  Lucy  stared  at  you  with  intense 
soberness. 

" Hurry  up,  Johnny.  Choose  a  chair,"  urged 
Mrs.  Daner,  she  being,  among  her  other 
functions,  the  discourager  of  hesitancy. 

Poor  soul,  it  devolved  upon  her  to  see  that 
the  programme  moved  forward  swiftly,  so  that 
no  one,  from  the  belle  and  the  beau  to  the  fat 
and  the  cross-eyed,  should  be  slighted  through 
lack  of  time. 

Mary  had  nodded.  It  must  be  Mary  who 
had  called  for  you;  else  why  should  she  have 
nodded  ?  With  confidence  you  darted  at  Mary's 
chair,  and  seated  yourself. 

How  they  shrieked,  and  how  they  clapped; 

[185] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


none  louder  than  Mary,  and  none  more  venge- 
fully  than  Lucy  —  Lucy,  who,  in  truth,  had 
called  you,  and  whom  you  had  unwittingly 
exasperated.     Boys  are  so  stupid! 

Another  victim  of  female  duplicky,  out  you 
dived  for  the  refuge  of  your  own  sex.  You 
resolved  that  sometime  you  would  pay  Mary 
Webster  back. 

Billy  Lunt  went  in  next.  What  befell  Billy 
was  signalized  by  a  sudden  uproar  of  laughter 
and  soprano  cries,  but  no  clapping! 

Billy  was  being  kissed! 

"A-a-aw,  Billy!"  and  all  of  you  pointed  your 
fingers  at  him,  and  prodded  him  in  the  ribs, 
when,  crimson  and  rumpled,  he  reappeared. 

"Who  kissed  you?" 

"Mary  Webster;  she  tried  to  but  she  didn't 
do  it  square!  I  skinned  out,  an'  they  grabbed 
holt  of  me,  an'  I  broke  away!"  boasted  Billy. 

After  clap-in  and  clap-out  was  instituted 
post-office,  and  after  post-office,  drop-the-hand- 
kerchief,  and  after  drop-the-handkerchief  ensued 
King  William,  sung  with  whatever  variations 
local  tongues  had  given  to  the  old,  old  rhyme: 

King  Will-yum  was  King  James's  son, 
And  he-e-e  th'  royal  race  did  run; 

[186] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

Upo-o-on  his  breast  he  wore  a  sta-a-ar 

Which  pe-e-eople  called  the  sign  of  war. 

Now  cho-o-ose  the  east,  now  cho-o-ose  the  west, 

And  cho-o-ose  the  one  that  you  love  be.-t: 

If  she's  not  here  to  take  your  part, 

Go  cho-o-ose  another  with  all  your  heart. 

Down  on  this  carpet  you  must  kneel, 

As  su-u-ure's  th'  grass  grows  in  the  field  — 

and  then,  as  everybody  knows,  you  are  supposed 
to  "kiss  your  sweet,"  and  "rise  upon  your  feet." 
Some  couples  kissed,  but  some  wouldn't. 

The  gulf  'twixt  the  boy  and  the  girl  factions 
has  long  since  been  effectually  spanned.  Mind- 
ful of  Mary's  meanness  in  befooling  you  into 
accepting  her  inhospitable  chair,  you  devote 
yourself  to  Lucy.  At  first  Lucy  is  lukewarm, 
and  with  a  pout  of  distaste  only  languidly  pursues 
you  after  you  have  deposited  the  handkerchief 
behind  her.  You  obey  a  command  to  "bow  to 
the  wittiest,  kneel  to  the  prettiest,  and  kiss  the 
one  you  love  the  best,"  but  although  this  last 
honor  you  would  bestow  upon  Lucy,  and  strug- 
gle desperately  to  salute  her,  she  grants  you 
merely  the  tip  of  an  ear. 

You  persevere  in  your  attentions,  and  by  re- 
peatedly twitching  her  hair-ribbon  into  disor- 
derly streamers,  you  arouse  her  interest  in  you. 

[187] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


You  chase  her,  screaming,  up-stairs  and  down; 
and  in  return  she,  with  screaming  unabated, 
chases  you  down-stairs  and  up,  and  chastises 
you  with  playful  little  slaps  and  pinches. 

Other  couples  are  similarly  engaged.  Yet 
you  all  are  "good,"  as  goodness  goes,  among 
your  generation. 

Out  of  what  is  rapidly  verging  upon  chaos,  the 
summons  to  refreshments  brings  organization 
once  more.  The  majority  of  the  boys,  com- 
prising the  ruder  spirits  and  the  so-to-speak 
unattached,  gather  in  a  corner,  where  it  is  each 
for  himself  and  pillage  your  neighbor.  The 
politer  boys,  which  class  includes  yourself,  stim- 
ulated to  their  duty  by  Mrs.  Daner,  attend  upon 
the  fair  ladies. 

You  watch  protectingly  over  Lucy,  gallantly 
letting  her  have  the  largest  piece  of  cake, 
although  you  covet  it  yourself,  and  essay- 
ing to  practise  other  denials  such  as  have 
been  impressed  upon  your  memory  by  your 
mother. 

You  and  Lucy  converse.  Your  "Gee!  ain't 
this  bully!"  and  her  ecstatic  response,  "My! 
ain't  it,  though!"  establish  between  you  a  de- 
lightful understanding.     For  her  entertainment 

[188] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


you  dexterously  insert  into  your  mouth  a  whole 
cookie. 

"Oh,  Johnny!    How  awful!"  she  sniggers. 

The  ice-cream  is  chocolate  and  vanilla,  and 
everybody  takes  both.  Hen  seems  not  to  be 
aggrieved  by  the  absence  of  strawberry.  Not 
being  a  ladies'  man,  he  is  in  the  corner  with 
kindred  souls,  but  you  can  hear  him. 

The  dishes  are  large. 

"Piggie!"  upbraids  Lucy,  when,  having  been 
solicited,  you  accept  a  second.  Nevertheless, 
she  does  not  refuse  a  spoonful  from  it,  now  and 
then. 

Last  come  the  candies,  amidst  which  are 
fascinating  motto-wafers,  always  the  source  of 
much  mirth  and  amusement. 

All  the  company  exchange  mottoes.  You 
and  Lucy  limit  your  operations  chiefly  to  one 
another.  For  instance,  you  present  her  with  a 
pink  motto,  shaped  like  a  four-leaf  clover,  which 
says; 

"Are  you  fickle-minded ?" 

"You  are  too  stout!"  replies  Lucy,  with  a 
circular  disk  in  cream  color. 

"Forget  me  not,"  you  entreat  —  the  words 
being  done  in  red  upon  a  white  diamond. 

[i89i 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"All  in  life  is  dear,"  answers  Lucy,  rather 
vaguely,  with  a  greenish  hexagon. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  you  query  —  a  pink 
heart. 

"Ask  pa's  consent,"  suggests  Lucy,  unmaid- 
enly  as  the  encouragement  may  appear,  with  an 
indented  square. 

You  have  to  trade  around  among  various 
friends  before  you  can  effectually  respond.  Sly 
Mary  Webster  supplies  you  with  "Say  now!" 
of  which  you  immediately  avail  yourself. 

"Will  you  marry  me?"  asks  Lucy,  dared 
thereto  by  companions,  while  those  in  the  secret 
whoop  and  shriek  at  her  boldness. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  you  assure  her,  providen- 
tially possessing  the  very  reply,  on  a  yellow  oval. 

"That's  what!"  comments  Lucy. 

The  remark  deserves  better,  but  the  best 
that  you  can  do  is  a  "With  all  my  heart,"  on 
a  pink  star. 


The  festivities  of  the  evening  are  over.  It 
is  time  to  go  home.  Most  of  the  mottoes  have 
eventually  been  eaten,  and  the  rest  of  them 
have  been  stuffed,  along  with  other  sweets,  into 
greedy  pockets.     Already  some  of  the  girls  have 

[190] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy- 
been  called  for  by  kinspeople,  and  some  of  the 
boys  have  scrambled  through  the  hall,  and 
noisily  fled  into  the  street.  You  encounter 
Lucy  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  hastily  thrust 
into  her  hand  a  motto  that  you  have  been 
saving  —  a  fine  shamrock  in  yellow,  which  says 
for  you: 

"May  I  see  you  home  to-night?" 

There  is  a  motto-wafer  with  a  mitten  on  it; 
has  Lucy  one,  and  will  she  be  moved  to  give 
it  to  you,  as  a  mischievous  rebuff  ?  Xo ;  lacking 
ready  answer,  she  only  giggles  and  attempts  to 
pass  on. 

"But  may  I?  I  ain't  foolin'  —  truly  I  ain't!" 
you  beseech,  husky  in  the  stress  of  the  mo- 
ment. 

"I  don't  care,"  calls  back  Lucy,  half-way  up 
the  flight. 

And  so,  much  to  the  disgust  of  Hen,  who  had 
counted  upon  your  society  going  as  well  as 
coming,  you  "saw  her  home"  in  the  most  exem- 
plary fashion  —  you  keeping  to  one  edge  of  the 
walk,  and  she  to  the  other,  and  between  your 
parallel  routes  space  for  a  coach  and  four. 

"  Edith  Lucas  is  mad  'cause  I  said  I'd  go 
home  with  her"  vouchsafes  Lucy. 

[>9i] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Pooh!  We  don't  mind,  do  we?"  you  affirm, 
employing  a  delightful  plural. 

"Uh-uh,"  agrees  Lucy. 

Beatific  silence  thenceforth  encompassed  your 
route  until  the  Rogers  front  gate  was  reached. 

"Good-night!"  piped  Lucy,  scampering  for 
the  door. 

"Good-night!"  cried  you,  running  deliriously 
down  the  street. 

And  the  next  day  all  the  boys  in  town  pes- 
tered you  with  their  teasing:  "Aw,  John!  went 
home  with  a  girl!"  and  you  find  "  John  Walker 
is  Lucy  Roger's  beau,"  chalked  upon  horse- 
blocks and  walks  and  gate-posts. 


[IQ2] 


MIDDLETON'S    HILL 


MIDDLETON'S  HILL 


LL  night  those  new  and  cher- 
ished acquisitions,  your  cop- 
per toed  boots,  had  served 
patient  sentry-duty  beside  your 
peaceful  couch,  now  wistfully 
to  wonder  why  their  lord  and 
master  did  not  awaken  and 
see  what  had  happened. 

The  rising-bell  summoned 
you,  but  you  only  protested, 
blind,  and  snuggled  for  another 
snooze. 

' '  Snowing,  John !  Get  up ! " 
called  father. 

"Scrape,  scrape,"  came  to 
your  ears  the  warning  of  an 
early  shovel. 
Your  heart  gave  a  wild  hurrah,  open  popped 
your  eyes,  to  the  floor  you  floundered,  to  the 
window  you  staggered.  Sure  enough!  The  sill 
was  heaped  to  the  lower  panes,  and  in  the  air 
the  flakes  were  as  thick  as  swarming  bees. 

[•95] 


'  CLEAR  THE 
TRACK"' 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

Ecstatically  alive,  you  hustled  on  your  clothes, 
bestowed  on  face  and  hair  a  cold  lick  and  a 
hasty  promise,  and  in  the  copper-toed  boots 
(eager  for  the  fray)  raced  noisily  down  the  stairs. 

You  found  the  household  less  exhilarated  and 
enthusiastic  than  you  had  expected. 

"Well,  this  is  a  snowstorm!"  commented 
mother,  in  a  blank  way,  pouring  the  coffee. 

"Um-m-m!    You  bet!"  you  mumbled. 

"It's  good  for  all  day,  I  guess,"  said  father, 
solemnly,  sipping  from  his  cup  as  he  gazed  out. 

"Oh,  dear!  Do  you  think  so?"  sighed 
mother,  aghast. 

"Oh,  gee!    I  hope  so!"  sighed  you,  fervently. 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  we  had  a  foot  or  more, 
by  night,"  continued  father. 

You  heard  him  rapturously.  Father  knew 
—  but  it  seemed  almost  too  good ! 

Fourteen  buckwheat  cakes  were  all  that  you 
could  allow  yourself,  this  morning.  The  snow 
needed  you;  and  grabbing  cap  and  scarf  and 
mittens,  with  a  battle-cry  of  defiance  and  joy 
you  rushed,  by  the  back  door,  into  the  furious 
vortex.  The  crackling  stove,  the  cheery  carpet, 
the  warm,  balmy,  comfortable  atmosphere  of 
indoors  appealed  not  to  you. 

[i96] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


First,  exultantly  you  dragged  forth  for  a 
preliminary  canter  your  faithful  sled,  long  since 
extricated  from  summer  quarters  and  held  in 
readiness  for  action.  The  snow  proved  satis- 
factory. 

" Ain't  this  dandy!"  you  shouted  through  the 


'"AIN'T  THIS  DANDY'" 


driving  flakes,  across  from  chores  in  your  back 
yard  to  Hen  at  chores  in  his  back  yard. 

"You  bet  you!"  agreed  Hen. 

So  it  was,  for  boys;  and  Madam  Nature, 
hovering  anxiously  near,  knew  that  her  efforts 
were  appreciated. 

"Won't  the  hill  be  bully,  thoM"  you  jubi- 
lated. 

[J97] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Gollv!"  reflected  Hen. 

"Got  your  runners  polished  yet?"  he  asked. 
"Mine's  all  rust." 

"So  are  mine,"  you  replied. 

Down  crowded  the  snow  —  there  never  are 
such  snows,  nowadays;  so  jolly,  so  welcome,  so 
free  from  disagreeable  features  —  and  in  school 
and  as  you  ploughed  back  and  forth  and  shov- 
eled your  paths,  you  and  your  comrades  were 
riotously  happy. 

Down  tumbled  the  snow  —  great,  soft  flakes 
of  it  like  shredded  wool-pack  —  until,  when  it 
ceased,  as  much  had  fallen  as  heart  of  boy 
could  wish  for,  which  was  considerable  more 
than  would  have  satisfied  the  majority  of  other 
people. 

The  hill  was  covered,  and  " sliding"  was  to 
be  "dandy"  —  and  that  was  your  sole  thought. 
Why  else  had  the  snow  come? 

To-day  you  remember  that  hill,  don't  you? 
Middleton's  Hill!  Of  course  you  do!  The 
best  hill  that  ever  existed.  Perfect  —  for  coast- 
ing. Ideal  —  for  coasting.  Grand  —  forecast- 
ing. Therefore  an  invaluable  possession,  al- 
though, be  it  said,  of  importance  rather  under- 
estimated by  the  public  generally. 

[i98] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

The  hill  started  off  gently;  suddenly,  with  a 
dip,  increased  its  slope;  and  after  a  curve,  and 
a  splendid  bump  over  a  culvert,  merged  with 
the  level  roadway.  Difficult  enough  to  ascend 
in  muddy  spring,  in  dusty  summer,  and  even 
in  hard  fall,  when  with  the  winter  it  came  into 
its  own  and  was  polished  by  two  hundred  run- 
ners, horse  and  man  usually  sought  another 
route.  It  was  practically  surrendered  to  you 
and  yours,  as  your  almost  undisputed  heritage. 

To  be  sure,  occasionally  some  rebellious 
citizen  attempted  to  adapt  it  to  his  own  selfish 
ends  by  sprinkling  ashes,  in  a  spasmodic  fashion, 
athwart  it;  but  a  little  snow  or  water  soon 
nullified  the  feeble  essay.  To  be  sure,  occa- 
sionallv  a  stubborn  driver,  his  discretion  less 
than  his  valor,  tilted  at  the  glistening,  glassy 
acclivity;  and  while  his  horses,  zigzagging  and 
slipping,  toiled  upward,  you  and  yours  hailed 
him  as  a  special  gift  of  Providence  and  gleefully 
hitched  on  behind. 

Yes,  it  was  a  paragon  of  a  hill,  with  a  record 
of  pleasure  to  which  here  and  there  a  broken 
bone  (soon  mended)  lent  but  additional  zest. 

The  hill  is  ready.     The  track,  at  first  traced 

[J99] 


u 

w 

p 

I— I 

> 

O 

i— i 
u 
w 

- 

C/2 


C/2 

I— I 

Q 

W 
►J 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

by  the  accommodating  sleds  and  feet  of  a  pio- 
neer few,  gradually  has  been  packed  and  pol- 
ished until  now  it  lies  smooth,  straight-away, 
inviting. 

The  hill  is  ready.  So  are  you.  Your  round 
turban-like  cap  is  pulled  firmly  upon  your  head 
and  over  your  ears,  your  red  tippet  (mother 
knit  it)  twice  encircles  your  neck,  crosses  your 
breast,  and  is  tied  (by  mother)  behind  in  a 
double  knot,  your  red  double  mittens  (mother 
knit  them  and  constantly  darns  them)  are  on 
your  hands,  and  your  legs  and  feet  are  in  your 
stout  copper-toed,  red-topped  boots.  And  your 
cheeks  (mother  kissed  them)  are  red,  too. 

Twitched  by  its  leading-rope,  follows  you, 
like  a  loyal  dog,  your  sled  —  a  very  fine  sled, 
than  which  none  is  finer. 

"Say,  but  she's  slick,  ain't  she!"  glories  Hen, 
as  you  and  he  hurriedly  draw  in  sight  of  your 
goal.  From  all  quarters  other  boys,  and  girls 
as  well,  are  converging,  with  gay  chatter,  upon 
this  Mecca  of  winter  sport.  Far  and  wide  has 
gone  forth  the  word  that  Middleton's  hill  is 
"bully." 

"Ain't  she!"  you  reply  enthusiastically. 

With  swoop  and  swerve  and  shrill  cheer  down 

[201] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


scud  the  sleds  and  bobs  of  the  earlier  arrivals, 
and  the  spectacle  spurs  you  to  the  crest. 

Panting,  you  reach  it. 

"You  go  first,"  you  say,  to  Hen. 

"Naw;  you,"  says  he. 

"All  right.     I'd  just  as  lief,"  you  respond. 

Breast-high  you  raise  your  sled,  its  rope 
securely  gathered  in  your  hands. 

"Clea-ear  the  track!"  you  shriek. 

"Clea-ear  the  track!"  echoes  down  the  hill, 
from  the  mouths  of  solicitous  friends. 

You  give  a  little  run,  and  down  you  slam, 
sled  and  all,  but  you  uppermost;  a  masterly 
exposition  of  "belly-bust."  Over  the  crest  you 
dart.  The  slope  is  beneath  you,  and  now  you 
are  off,  willy-nilly. 

"Clea-ear  the  track!"  again  you  shriek,  with 
your  last  gasp. 

You  have  begun  to  fall  like  a  rocket,  faster, 
faster,  ever  faster,  through  the  black- bordered 
lane.  The  wind  blinds  your  eyes,  the  wind 
stops  your  breath,  the  wind  sings  in  your  ears, 
like  an  oriflamme  stream  and  strain  your  tippet- 
ends,  and  the  snow-crystals  spin  in  your  wake. 
Dexterously  applying  your  toes  you  steer  more 
by  intuition  than  by  sight.     You  dash  around 

[202] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


the  curve;  you  strike  the  culvert,  and  it  flings 
you  into  the  air  until  daylight  shows  'twixt  you 
and  your  steed;  ka-thump!  you  have  landed 
again;  and  presently  over  the  level  you  glide 
with  slowly  decreasing  speed  until,  the  last 
glossy  inch  covered,  the  uttermost  mark  pos- 
sible, this  time,  attained,  you  arise,  with  eyes 
watery  and  face  tingly,  and  stand  aside  to 
watch  Hen,  who  comes  apace  in  your  rear. 

"Aw,  that  ain't  fair!  You're  shovin'!  That 
don't  count!"  you  assert,  as  Hen,  in  order  to 
equal  your  mark,  evinces  an  inclination  to 
propel  with  his  hands,  alligator  fashion. 

Hen  sheepishly  desists,  and  scrambles  to  his 
feet. 

' '  Cracky !  That's  a  reg'ler  old  belly-bumper, 
ain't  it!"  he  exclaims  joyously. 

He  refers  to  the  delicious  culvert.  You 
assent.  The  culvert  is  a  consummation  of 
bliss  to  which  words  even  more  expressive  than 
Hen's  may  not  do  justice. 

Up  the  slope,  in  the  procession  along  its  edge, 
you  and  he  trudge;  and  down  again,  in  the 
procession  along  its  middle,  you  fly.  Over  and 
over  and  over  you  do  it,  and  the  snow  fills 
sleeve  and  neck  and  boot-leg. 

[203] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

Occasionally,  with  much  noise  but  little  real 
speed,  adown  the  track  comes  a  girl,  or  two 
girls.  The  majority  of  them,  however,  use  a 
track  of  their  own  —  a  shorter,  slower  track, 
off  at  one  side.  Poor  things,  condemned  by 
fate  to  their  own  company  and  that  of  the 
smallest,  timidest  urchins,  they  pretend  to  have 
exciting  times. 

They  sit  up  straight,  girls  do,  the  ethics  of 
society  seeming  to  deny  them  the  privilege  of 
"  belly- buster,"  and  on  high  sleds  —  nothing 
can  be  more  ignominious  than  a  "girl's  sled" 
—  scraping  and  screaming,  showing  glimpses 
of  red  flannel  petticoats  as  they  prod  with  their 
heels,  acting  much  like  frightened  hens  scuttling 
through  a  yard  they  plough  to  their  goal. 

For  a  girl  to  essay  the  big  hill  appears  to  be 
"no  end  of"  an  undertaking.  First  she  —  or, 
probably  they,  inasmuch  as  girls  usually  adven- 
ture in  pairs,  to  encourage  each  other;  first 
they,  then,  squat  on  their  flimsy  sled,  girl- 
fashion  (another  reproach  this:  "girl  fashion"), 
and  titter  and  shriek;  and  the  one  on  behind 
urges  by  "hitching"  with  her  feet  in  the  peculiar 
girl  way,  and  the  one  on  before  holds  back 
with  her  feet  and  says: 

[204] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Wait!" 

They  wait  for  bob  and  sled  to  precede,  until 
with  frantic  unanimity  of  action  they  seize  upon 


"GIRL  FASHION" 


a  favorable  interim  betwixt  coasters,  and  with 
trepidation  are  off. 

But  you  overtake  them. 

[205] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Look  out!"  you  yell,  as  on  your  bounding 
courser  you  eat  up  the  trail. 

"Look  out!" 

You  try  to  retard  your  speed  by  dragging 
your  copper  toes.  Anticipating  the  shock  of 
collision  you  lift  the  forward  part  of  you,  like  a 
worm  reconnoitering. 

"Look  ou-out!" 

One  last  agonizing  appeal.  And  now  the 
pesky  girls,  glancing  behind  with  sudden  appre- 
hension, in  utmost  haste  and  terror-stricken 
confusion,  amidst  wild  cries,  by  dint  of  laboring 
feet  veer  ditchward,  stop  on  the  brink,  and  as 
you  shoot  past  rise  frustrated  and  gaze  after. 

Well,  they  have  spoiled  your  slide.  You  had 
a  grand  start,  and  goodness  knows  where  you 
might  have  gone  to.  Darn  it,  why  can't  girls 
stay  on  their  own  track! 

Yes,  indeed.  Nevertheless,  budding  chivalry 
grafted  upon  natural  superiority  prompts  you 
to  take  Somebody  down  on  a  real  ride.  You 
would  like  this  Somebody,  if  the  other  boys 
would  only  let  you;  but  most  of  the  time  you 
cannot  afford  to. 

A  sparkling  little  figure  in  white  hood,  fur- 
trimmed  jacket,  white  mittens  strung  about  her 

[206] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


neck,  and  plaid  skirt  well  wadded  out  over  long 
leggins,  with  her  ridiculously  high  sled  (girl- 
sled)  she  stands  by  looking  on. 

"Want  to  go  down,  once?  I'll  take  you," 
you  offer  bluffly. 

From  amidst  the  giggling  society  of  her  sex 
she  bravely  advances,  and  obediently  seats 
herself  on  your  sled. 

"Oh,  Lucy!  I'd  be  'shamed!  Sliding  with 
a  boy!     Oh,  Lucy!" 

Lucy  wriggles  disdainfully. 

" Don't  you  wish  you  could!"  she  retorts. 

"Aw,  John!  Takin'  a  girl!  'Fore  I'd  be 
seen  takin'  a  girl!"  joins  in  the  gibing  chorus 
of  your  mates 

You  hurriedly  shove  off. 

"You  got  room  enough?"  asks  your  solicitous 
passenger. 

"Lots,"  you  affirm  huskily;  and  crouched  to 
steer  you  leave  the  derisive  crest  behind  you. 

Down  you  spin  —  you  and  Lucy,  both  grip- 
ping hard  the  sled;  your  shoulder  pressing 
against  her  soft  back,  and  her  hair-ribbon 
whipping  across  your  mouth  as  you  peer  vigi- 
lantly ahead. 

Here  is  the  culvert. 

[207] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Hold  on  tight!"  you  warn. 

"Whisk  — slam!" 

With  a  tiny  scream  from  Lucy  you  have 
landed,  right  side  up,  the  three  of  you. 

"Wasn't  that  bully?"  you  query  reassuringly. 

But  Lucy  must  first  recover  her  breath. 

This  she  does  when  finally,  the  sled  having 
entirely  ceased  motion,  you  and  she  must  fain 
disembark. 

"My!"  she  gasps.  "I  jus'  love  to  go  fast 
like  that,  don't  you?" 

Her  tone  conveys  volumes.  Suffused  with 
proud  gratification  you  pick  up  the  rope. 

"You're  a  splendid  steerer,  aren't  you!"  she 
says  admiringly. 

"Huh!"  you  scoff.     "Steerin'  's  easy." 

"Get  on  and  I'll  haul  you  up,"  you  proffer. 

"Won't  I  be  too  heavy?"  she  objects,  de- 
lighted. 

"Naw,"  you  assert.     "You're  nothin'." 

Ignoring  jeers  and  flings  you  carry  out  your 
voluntary  program,  to  the  very  end. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much,"  pipes  Lucy, 
nimbly  running  to  rejoin  her  own  kind. 

Shamefacedly  you  lift  your  sled,  and  with  a 
tremendous  belly-buster  are  away  again;  and 

[208] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

when  once  more  you  reach  the  crest  your  straggle 
from  grace  will  have  been  forgotten. 

And  at  last,  wet  through  and  through,  coun- 
tenance like  a  polished  Spitzenburgh  (you  have 
a  right  to  the  simile,  as  the  barrel  in  the  cellar 
will  testify),  hands  and  feet  like  parboiled 
lobsters,  reluctant  to  withdraw  but  monstrously 
hungry,  you  arrive  at  home  to  be  fed. 

"John!  Don't  come  in  here  that  way!  Go 
right  into  the  kitchen  and  take  off  your  boots. 
Mercy!"  expostulates  mother,  as  in  you  stamp, 
leaving  a  slushy  trail  and  munching  a  doughnut 
as  a  sop  to  that  clamorous  stomach. 

Wearily  you  return  to  the  kitchen,  and  apply 
your  oozy,  slippery  boots  to  the  bootjack.  Then, 
having  abandoned  your  footgear,  their  once  gay 
tops  now  a  sodden  maroon  and  their  copper  toes 
already  showing  effects  of  the  friction  whereby 
they  steered  you  down  the  hill,  to  steam  behind 
the  kitchen  stove,  you  obey  orders  to  go  up- 
stairs and  change  into  the  dry  clothing  that 
mother  has  thoughtfully  laid  out. 

What  a  nuisance  mothers  are!  Oh,  dear, 
won't  supper  ever  be  ready! 


[209] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"  Billy  Lunt  an'  Chub  Thornbury's  got  a 
bob.     Let's  us  make  one,"  proposed  Hen. 

" Let's,"  you  agreed. 

So,  combining  equipments,  you  and  he  pro- 
ceeded, in  emulation.  The  two  sleds  were 
connected  by  a  board  seven  feet  long,  bolted 
as  securely  as  possible  to  the  rear  sled,  and 
fastened  to  the  front  one  by  a  single  bolt  which 
acted  as  a  pivot  —  and  which,  at  a  sudden  jerk, 
would  pull  out,  and  throw  the  major  portion  of 
the  bob  upon  its  own  resources. 

However,  the  bob  was  a  very  good  bob,  and 
when  cleverly  shoved  off  and  expertly  steered 
gallantly  maintained  itself  against  all  comers; 
even  against  Fat  Day's  more  aristocratic 
"boughten"  bob,  which,  with  its  gay  paint 
and  varnish  and  rail  " hand-holts,"  was  the 
pride  of  Fat's  heart  and  the  apple  of  his  stingy 
eye. 

Hen  steers  (for  steering  is  a  science)  and  you 
shove  off  (for  shoving  off  is  an  art).  Between 
you  two,  pilot  and  captain  of  the  craft,  it 
packed,  on  occasion,  an  inconceivable  number 
of  passengers,  with  always  room  for  one  more. 

" Gimme  a  ride.  "Lemme  ride!"  beseech 
friends. 

[210] 


Wh 


en  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Aw,  you  can't!     There  ain't  any  room!' 
"There  is,  too!     I  can  get  on,  all  right." 


"THE  BOB  WAS  A   VERY  GOOD  BOB" 

"G'wan!     Don't  you  let  him,  John!     Don't 
you  let  him,  Hen!     We're  all  squashed  now!" 
This  from  the  jealous  load  already  booked. 

[211] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"  Shove    up,    can't    you!     Aw,     shove    up! 
What's  the  matter  with  you!    There's  lots  of 


room!" 


And  the  pestiferous  intruder  squeezes  in. 
The  bob  looks  like  a  gigantic  caterpillar  upside 
down,  so  thick  are  the  heads  and  shoulders  in 
a  series  of  ridges.  The  board  creaks.  The 
load  also  complains,  grunting  uneasily  as  each 
boy,  fitting  like  a  bootjack  into  the  boy  before, 
his  legs  stretched  horizontally  along  either 
flank,  tries  to  "  shove  up  closer."  Hen,  his 
feet  braced  against  the  stick  nailed  across  the 
points  of  the  guiding  sled,  is  the  only  unit  of 
the  mass  that  enjoys  any  elbow-space.  But 
then,  the  pilot  of  a  vessel  is  ex  officio  the  favored 
personage. 

"Darn  it,  lift  up  your  feet,  there!" 

"Then  somebody  hold  'em!  Grab  my  feet, 
somebody!" 

"Whose  feet  I  got,  anyway?" 

"Aw,  quit  your  shovin'  so!" 

"G'wan  an'  push  off.     We  don't  want  any 


more." 


"Gimme  some  room!"  you  plead.     "I  only 
got  about  an  inch!" 

They  hitch  along,  and  cede  you  another  inch. 

[212] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Clea-ear  the  track!" 

You  bend  and  push.  The  bob  starts.  It 
gathers  way.  One  concluding  effort,  and  you 
land  aboard  just  as  it  is  outstripping  you;  and 
kneeling  upon  your  scant  two  inches,  hanging 
for  dear  life  to  the  shoulders  of  the  boy  in 
front  of  you,  are  embarked  for  your  rapturous 
yet  excruciating  flight. 

With  lurch  and  leap,  with  whoop  and  cheer, 
down  zips  the  bob,  every  lad  clutching  his 
neighbor  as  he  may,  each  cemented  to  each  — 
but  you,  out  in  the  cold,  clutching  most  des- 
perately of  all. 

"I'm  fallin'  off!"  you  announce  wildly. 

The  two  inches  are  only  one  and  a  half. 

"  Jocko's  fallin'  off!" 

How  delightful  —  for  the  others !  The  news 
of  your  lingering  predicament  is  received  with 
hoots  of  wicked  glee. 

Around  the  curve,  with  everybody  leaning, 
and  the  rear  sled  slewing  outward  whilst  you 
balance  on  its  extreme  edge.     Going  — 

Over  the  culvert,  a  double  jounce,  and  now 
you  are  all  but  gone.     Going,  going  — 

On  the  level,  nearing  the  finish,  speed  slightly 
abated;  and  now  your  tired  fingers  relax,  you 

[2I3] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


cannot  hang  on  any  longer,  your  knees  slip, 
going,  going  —  gone;  but  gone  more  gracefully 
than  you  had  reason  to  expect. 

"You  didn't  gimme  any  room!"  you  accuse, 
angrily,  when  you  meet  your  squad  as  in  rollick- 


ing mood  they  tow  the  bob  back  toward  the 
crest. 


The  old  hill  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  It  has 
been  "graded."  No  more  do  the  sleds  flash 
adown  as  they  once  did.     A  new-fangled  set  of 

[214] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


city  ordinances  forbids.  Hazardous  curve  and 
inspiring  "belly-bumper,"  tippet  and  copper- 
toed  boots,  clipper  and  bob,  have  vanished  to- 
gether, leaving  only  a  few  demure  little  boys  in 
overcoats,  and  demure  little  girls  in  muffs  and 
boas,  who  sit  up  straight  and  properly  descend, 
at  a  proper  pace,  along  the  outskirts  —  and 
think  that  they  are  having  fun! 
Good-by,  old  hill. 


[215] 


GOIN'    SWIMMIN' 


GOIN'    SWIMMIN' 

THE  sun  was  laying  a  fervid  course  higher 
and  higher  athwart  the  bending  blue;  in 
household  kitchens  was  the  odor  of  sassafras  tea 
—  and  in  your  mouth  the  taste  of  it ;  the  air  was 
humid,  the  earth  was  mellow,  winter  flannels  a 
sticky  burden,  shoes  burning  shackles;  snakes 
had  long  been  out,  and  turtles  were  emerging, 
to  bask,  and  to  pop  in,  as  of  old,  with  exasperat- 
ing freedom;  you  yearned  to  follow  them. 

The  water  looked  warm.  Snoopie  Mitchell, 
always  authority  on  everything,  bluffly  asserted 
that  it  was  warm.  But  Snoopie  appeared  to 
have  a  hide  impervious  to  discomfort.  Snoopie 
did  as  he  pleased,  and  nothing  ever  hurt  him, 
notwithstanding.  Sometimes  you  wished  that 
your  father  and  mother  would  observe,  and 
learn,  to  your  profit. 

"Dare  you  to  go  in  swimmin'!"  volunteered 
Billy  Lunt,  that  hot  spring  noon,  when  it  seemed 
to  you  that  you  must  burst  out  of  your  smother- 
ing clothes  as  a  snake  out  of  his  skin. 

[219] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Aw,  we  ain't  afraid;  are  we,  Hen?"  you 
answered  promptly,  enrolling  Hen  for  support. 

"No.     We'll  go  if  you  will,"  retorted  Hen. 

"Snoop  Mitchell  —  he's  been  in  an'  he  says 
it's  dandy,"  informed  Billy. 

Of  course!  That  Snoopie!  He  was  well 
named. 

"Aw  —  I  bet  he  ain't,  just  the  sam-ee,"  you 
faltered  enviously. 

"He  has,  too.     You  ask  him,  now." 

And  Snoopie  at  the  moment  opportunely 
sauntering  near,  Billy  hailed  him: 

"Snoopie!  Ain't  you  been  in  swimmin' 
already?" 

Snoopie  grandly  nodded,  and  nonchalantly 
spat  betwixt  two  front  upper  teeth. 

"Course  I  have,"  he  answered.  "Ain't  you 
kids  been  in  yet?     Aw,  gee!" 

"Was  it  warm?"  you  inquired  humbly. 

"Jus'  right.  Makes  you  feel  fine.  We  go 
in  every  day,  about  —  me  an'  Spunk  Carey." 

That  settled  it.  The  swimming  season  had 
opened. 

During  the  afternoon  at  school  you  and  Hen 
and  Billy  were  in  an  ecstatic  tremor.  From 
behind  his  geography  Billy  darted  into  sight 

[220] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

two  fingers,  you  responded,  daringly,  with  two 
fingers,  and  Hen  telegraphed  quick  accord  with 
like  two  fingers  —  the  mysterious  "V"  sign  of 
the  Free  Masonry  of  swimmers. 

Teacher  saw,  and  frowned;  but  "teacher," 
by  reason  of  her  limitations  of  sex,  could  not 
appreciate  what  you  were  having,  and  what  she 
was  missing. 

With  a  proud  consciousness,  you  and  Hen 
and  Billy  foregathered  after  school  and  started 
creekward. 

"We're  goin'  swimmin'!"  you  called  back  to 
former  associates. 

"Aw,  it's  too  cold!"  they  complained. 

"We  don't  care.     'Twont'  hurt  us." 

"Bet  you  don't  go  in!" 

"Bet  you  a  hundred  dollars  we  do!" 

"Bet  you  two  hundred  you  don't!" 

(Dollars  meant  so  much  less  to  you  in  those 
days  than  in  these.) 

"You  come  along  and  see!" 

"Uh-uh.     We're  goin'  to  play  ball." 

Very  well ;  let  them  stay  and  play  ball,  if  they 
liked.  You  would  be  entitled  to  strut  on  the 
morrow. 

In  the  afternoon  sun  the  creek  lay  smiling, 

[221] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

inviting,  deluding.  Upon  its  bank  a  new  crop 
of  tin  cans  testified  that  the  fishing  season,  also, 
had  opened.  Some  of  the  cans  were  yours. 
The  grass  was  soft,  and  sitting  on  it  you  vied 
with  Hen  and  Billy  in  pulling  off  shoes  and 
stockings. 

"First  in!"  challenged  Billy,  hastily  peeling. 

You  fumbled  with  the  buttons  which  united 
waist  with  knickerbockers,  and  silently  resolved 
that  you  would  let  him  beat.  Evidently  Hen 
was  of  mind  identical.  Billy,  now  naked  like 
some  young  faun,  but  singularly  white  and 
spindly,  gave  a  coltish  little  kick  and  prance, 
and,  with  ostentatious  gusto,  advanced  to  the 
water's  edge. 

Yourself  exposed  to  the  world,  feeling  oddly 
bare  and  defenseless  —  a  feeling  which  with 
wont  would  disappear,  as  the  summer  wore  on 
— you  stood  and,  shivering,  wrapped  yourself 
in  your  arms  and  watched  him. 

Billy  stuck  a  toe  into  the  water  and  quickly 
drew  it  back. 

"Is  it  cold?"  you  queried. 

"Naw!     Come  on!"  he  urged. 

"Let's  see  you  go  in  first." 

"That  ain't  fair.     You  come  in,  too!" 

[222  ] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Naw!  You  dared  us.  You  got  to  do  it 
first,"  declared  Hen. 

"Huh,  I  ain't  afraid,"  asserted  Billy. 

Resolutely  he  put  one  foot  in.  Involuntarily 
he  flinched  —  but  he  followed  it  with  the  other. 
Witnessing  his  actions,  reading  that  his  toes 
were  curling,  you  and  Hen  jeered  and  whooped. 
As  you  jeered,  you  continued  to  huddle,  and  to 
shrink  within  yourself.  Gee,  but  it  was  cold! 
Somehow,  the  sun  did  not  warm,  and  a  little 
breeze,  heretofore  unnoted,  enveloped  you  with 
an  icy  breath.  You  humped  your  shoulders, 
and  your  teeth  chattered.  Hen's  teeth,  also, 
were  chattering.     You  could  hear  them. 

"Go  on!  Duck  over!"  you  told  Billy,  de- 
risively. 

Billy  was  game.  Suddenly,  with  water  up  to 
his  quaking  knees,  he  ducked.  In  an  instant 
he  was  upright  again  —  staggering,  gasping, 
sputtering,  but  triumphant. 

"Come  on  in!"  he  implored,  wildly  solicitous 
that  you  and  Hen,  hooting  your  glee,  should 
participate  more  actively.  "'Tain't  cold. 
What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

Followed  by  Hen  you  diffidently  moved  for- 
ward.    Shivering,  gingerly  you  teetered  down, 

[223] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

twigs  and  little  stones  hurting  your  yet  tender 
soles. 

Billy  ducked  again,  apparently  with  the  ut- 
most relish,  and  floundered  and  splashed,  his 
energy  very  marked. 

You  experimented  with  a  foot  —  and  hastily 
jerked  it  out. 

"Gee!"  you  exclaimed.  "I  ain't  go  in'  in! 
It's  too  cold." 

"I  ain't,  neither,"  decreed  Hen. 

"Aw,  'tain't  cold  a  bit  when  you've  wet  over," 
assured  Billy  eagerly  —  but  suspiciously  blue. 
"Take  a  dare  —  aw,  I  wouldn't  take  a  dare! 
You're  stumped!  Yah-ah!   I've  stumped  you!" 

Diabolically  did  Billy  flounder  and  gibe.  He 
paused,  expectantly,  for  you  planted  a  foot,  and 
gasped,  and  followed  with  the  other;  so  did  Hen. 

Billy  playfully  splashed  you. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried.     "Come  on!" 

"Ouch!  Quit  that,  will  you?"  you  snarled, 
as  the  poignant  drops  stung  your  thin  skin. 
"I'm  comin',  ain't  I?" 

Deeper,  a  little  deeper,  you  went,  with  your 
piteously  pleading  flesh  trying  to  recede  from 
that  repellant  glacial  line  creeping  up,  inch  by 
inch. 

[224] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

Billy  shrieked  with  joy.  What  is  misery 
when  it  has  company! 

"Duck!"  he  cackled.  "Duck!  'Twon't  be 
cold  after  you've  ducked." 

Must  you?  Oh,  must  you?  Yes.  You 
drew  a  long  breath,  shut  your  eyes,  and  des- 
perately butted  under.  So,  you  dimly  were 
conscious,  did  Hen. 

Ugh!  You  choked;  your  stomach  clove  flat 
against  your  backbone,  and  in  you  was  not 
space  for  air.  Blindly  you  recovered,  and 
lurched  and  clawed  and  fought  for  breath, 
while  Billy  rioted  with  wicked  exultation. 

"  'Tain't  c-c-cold,  is  it?"  you  gasped  defiantly. 

"No;  'tain't  c-c-cold  a  bit,"  chattered  Hen. 

"I  told  you  'twasn't  cold,"  sniggered  Billy. 

But  you  impetuously  plashed  for  shore;  so 
did  Hen;  so  did  Billy.  With  numbed  fingers 
you  made  all  haste  to  pull  your  clothes  over  the 
goose-flesh  of  your  weazened  limbs  and  your 
shuddering  little  body.  You  began  to  grow 
warmer.     You  tried  to  control  rattling  teeth. 

"'Twasn't  cold!" 

"Of  course  it  wasn't!" 

"We'll  tell  all  the  kids  it's  bully." 

"Gee!   I  feel  fine,  don't  you?" 

[225] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"You  bet!" 
"Let's  come  again." 
"Let's  come  to-morrow." 
"N-no,  I  can't  come  to-morrow,"  you  de- 
clared. 

"I  can't,  either,"  said  Hen. 

Retrospect  was  most  delightful;  but  prospect 

—  well,  here  was  a  case  where  the  prospect  did 
not  please.  Anyhow,  you  had  not  been  stumped. 
Your  honor  was  intact  —  and  you  could  rest  on 
your  laurels.  You  could  nicely  combine  dis- 
cretion with  valor;  so  why  not? 

"I've  been  in  swimmin',"  you  ventured,  with 
becoming  modesty,  at  the  supper-table  that 
evening. 

"John!    When?"  reproved  mother,  aghast. 

"To-day,  after  school." 

You  endeavored  to  speak  with  the  careless- 
ness befitting  a  seasoned  nature  such  as  yours 

—  but  you  awaited  with  some  inward  trepidation 
family  developments. 

"Why!"  ejaculated  mother. 

You  felt  that  she  was  gazing  across  at  father. 
Much  depended,  you  realized,  upon  father. 
However,  he  had  been  a  boy,  and  he  surely 
would  understand. 

[226] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"But  wasn't  the  water  too  cold?"  she  ques- 
tioned anxiously. 

"Uh-uh,"  you  signified,  steadily  eating. 

"It  must  have  been  cold,"  insisted  mother. 
"Why,  the  sun  hasn't  had  time  to  warm  it  yet. 
I  should  think  you'd  have  frozen  to  death!" 

"It  was  dandy.  Makes  you  feel  fine,"  you 
assured  boldly.  "Billy  Lunt  dared  Hen  and 
me,  and  — " 

"I  suppose  if  some  other  boy  dared  you  to 
jump  off  the  top  of  the  church  steeple  you'd  do 
it,  then,"  stated  mother  severely. 

"He'd  have  to  do  it  first,"  you  explained  with 

"Well,  I  should  think  you'd  have  frozen," 
murmured  mother,  with  an  appealing  glance  at 
father. 

Perhaps  she  would  have  frozen  —  being,  like 
"teacher,"  of  a  sex  unfortunate.  But  not  you 
—  nay,  not  mighty,  dauntless,  much-experienced 
you,  with  your  ten  long  years  backing  you  up. 
Huh! 

Not  always  was  swimming  thus  a  task;  the 

embrace  of  the  creek  deceitful  and  inhospitable. 

Ah,  those  glorious,  piping,  broiling  summer 

[227] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

days,  when  from  the  faded  sky  the  heat  streamed 
down,  and  from  the  simmering  earth  the  heat 
streamed  up;  when  abroad,  in  the  maples  and 
the  elms  and  the  apple-trees  incessantly  scraped 
with  ghoulish  glee  the  locusts,  and  in  the  fields 
the  quail  cried  perseveringly , ' '  Wet  1  More  wet ! 
More  wet!"  when  the  sun  ruled  absolutely,  and 
everybody  —  save  you  and  your  fellows  — 
stewed  and  panted  under  his  sway;  "dog-days" 
—  aye,  and  boy-days!  Then,  then,  at  the 
swimming-hole  the  kingdom  of  boyhood  held 
high  carnival. 

All  nature  lay  lax  and  heaving,  seeking  shade 
and  avoiding  exertion,  as  outward  bound 
through  the  stifling  afternoon  you  and  Hen 
hastened  for  the  swimming-hole.  Even  the 
birds  were  subdued,  and  the  drone  of  the 
bumble-bee  was  languid,  protesting;  but  what 
did  you  and  Hen  care  about  such  things  as 
temperature    or    humidity?     Goodness!     You 


were  "groin'  swimmin'!" 


As  you  pattered  on,  you  and  he,  the  boards 
of  the  sidewalk  scorched  your  bare  soles,  tough- 
ened as  they  were,  and  even  the  baked  earth  of 
the  pathway  along  the  vacant  lots  tortured,  so 
that,  with  "ouches"  and  "gees"  you  hopped 

[228] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

for  shaded  spots  or  sought  the  turf.  Beat  down 
upon  your  flapping  straws  the  strenuous  sun  — 
his  beams,  after  all,  not  unfriendly,  but  merely 
testing,  and  in  a  hearty  way,  welcoming. 

He  recognized  you  two  as  akin  to  the  meadow- 
larks  and  the  gophers,  and  he  knew  that  he 
might  not  harm  you.     You  were  immunes. 

The  outskirts  of  the  village  are  reached  right 
speedily;  and  now  off  at  a  tangent,  athwart  the 
drowsy,  palpitating  pasture  where  the  bees  are 
busy  amidst  the  clover,  making  for  a  fringe  of 
trees  leads  a  path  worn  by  many  a  hurrying, 
bare,  and  buoyant  sole. 

You  can  hear,  ahead  of  you,  an  enthusing 
medley  of  gay  shrieks  and  cries  and  laughter. 

"Crickety!"  you  say  to  Hen,  quickening  the 
pace.     " There's  a  whole  lot  in  already!" 

And  you  are  not  even  undressed! 

On  before,  between  the  tree-trunks  at  your 
destination,  you  can  glimpse,  strewn  over  the 
sod  or  hanging  from  low  branches,  rejected 
and  dejected  garments  —  limp  shirts,  hickory, 
checked,  tinted;  stumpy  trousers,  dangling  or 
down -flung.  You  descry  the  patchy  blue  of 
Snoopie  Mitchell's  one-suspendered  overalls;  so 
you  know  that  Snoopie  is  there.     You  know 

[229] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

who  else  is   there,  too.     The   apparel  is  evi- 
dence. 

The  sight  redoubles  your  efforts.  In  rivalry 
with  Hen,  panting,  perspiring,  eager,  you  pene- 
trate the  trees  and  stop  short  on  the  bank. 
You  have  arrived. 

Yes,  here  they  are:  Snoopie,  and  Billy  Lunt, 
and  Fat  Day  (his  body  covered  with  hives),  and 
Skinny,  and  Chub,  and  Nixie  Kemp  (who  can 
exhibit  the  biggest  vaccination  mark  of  all  of 
you),  and  Tom  Kemp  (who  is  always  peeling, 
somewhere),  and  —  oh,  a  glorious  company, 
wallowing  like  albino  porpoises,  threshing  like 
whales ! 

"A-a-a-ah,  lookee,  lookee!"  greets  Snoopie 
(indefatigable,  omnipresent)  shrilly,  grinning  up 
at  you;  and  for  your  benefit  he  stands  on  his 
head  and  waves  his  brown  legs  above  the 
surface. 

" Hello,  Fat!" 

" Hello,  Skinny!" 

" Hello,  Jocko!" 

" Hello,  Hen!" 

"Hello,  Nix!" 

"Come  on  in!     Come  on  in!" 

"Gee!     It's  dandy!" 

[230] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Water's  jus'  fine!    Warm  as  milk!" 

"You're  missin'  it!     We  been  in  all  day." 

Harrowing  announcement ! 

Nor  you  nor  Hen  needs  invitation  by  word  of 
mouth.  You  are  ripping  feverishly  at  your 
obstinate  buttons,  and  tugging  feverishly  at 
your  pestering  clinging  garments.  But  how 
absurdly  simple  was  your  attire,  as  reviewed 
to-day  from  your  environment  of  starch  and 
balbriggan,  hosiery  and  collar.  Nevertheless, 
many  a  time,  in  your  agony  of  haste,  you  envied 
Snoopie,  who  with  a  single  movement  slipped 
the  one  suspender  of  his  overalls  and  ducked 
out  of  his  voluminous  shirt,  and  with  a  whoop 
was  in !  —  happy  Snoopie ! 

Now,  investing  apparel  cast  aside  in  an  igno- 
minious heap,  at  last  free  and  untrammeled  you 
stride  forward.  From  knee  down  and  from 
neck  up  you  are  dark-brown;  between,  you  are 
whitish-brown.  Before  the  season  closes  you 
will  be  an  even  brown  all  over  (like  Snoopie), 
if  your  ambition  is  realized. 

First  you  must  wet  your  head.  This  is  the  law ; 
else  you  may  get  cramps.    You  hurriedly  wet  it. 

"Look  out!"  you  warn  with  a  significant  step 
or  two  backward,  to  gain  momentum. 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


You  give  a  little  run,  and  with  a  rapturous 
shout  and  a  grand  splash  you  are  in.  So  is 
Hen. 

Oh,  bliss!  The  caressing,  rollicking  flood 
envelops  you  to  the  shoulders.  You  wade,  you 
kick,  you  sputter,  you  blow,  you  plunge  your 
length,  you  squeal  your  joy  intense  -  -  you  con- 
vince yourself  and  would  convince  others  that 
you  swim;  and  your  comrades  wade,  and  kick, 
and  sputter,  and  blow,  and  plunge  their  lengths, 
and  squeal  —  and  ostentatiously  paddle.  While 
Snoopie,  crawling  about  under  water,  grabs 
legs;  presently  grabbing  yours,  and  down  you 
go,  beneath,  to  emerge  strangling,  clutching, 
incensed. 

Stirred  from  the  very  bottom,  all  the  pool  is 
beaten  to  foam,  the  sun  looks  down  between 
the  spangling  leaves  and  smiles,  and  the  trees 
fondly  overhang,  stretching  down  friendly 
boughs. 

What  a  wonder  you  were,  as  a  water  per- 
former ! 

"See  me  float!"  you  yell  —  this  being  the 
popular  pitch  of  conversation. 

And  you  could  float  —  almost,  that  is,  until 

[232] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

your  feet  or  your  face  sank  too  far  and  forced 
you  to  rally. 

"Aw,  that  ain't  floatin'!  Jus'  watch  me!" 
decrees  Snoopie. 

Snoopie  really  could  float  —  and  challenging 
admiring  eyes  he  proceeds  to  display. 

"Watch  me!"  implores  Fat. 

"Aw,  gee!  Watch  Fat!  Aw  gee!  That 
ain't  floatin'!  That  ain't  floatin',  is  it, 
Snoop?  Fat  wiggles  his  hands  down  by  his 
sides!" 

"Don't  either!"  declares  Fat, angrily, flopping 
his  mottled  self  to  a  standing  position. 

"You  do,  too!     Don't  he?" 

You  could  stand  Snoopie's  superiority,  but 
not  Fat's. 

"Well,  I  didn't  wiggle  'em  much,  anyhow," 
grumbles  Fat. 

With  breath  tight  held  and  head  tilted 
stanchly  back,  launching  yourself  and  paddling 
furiously  dog-fashion,  you  can  easily  imagine 
that  you  are  cleaving  a  path  through  the  murky 
flood. 

"You're  touchin'  bottom!  Aw,  you  touched 
bottom!"  accuses  Fat. 

"I  wasn't,  either,  darn  you!    I  started  'way 

[233] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


up  there  at  that  stick  and  I  come  'way  down 
here!"     (The  distance  is  at  least  a  yard.) 

Betimes,  splashing  out,  you  all  seek  the  banks, 
amphibious-like;  to  streak  yourselves  fantasti- 
cally with  mud,  to  cover  yourselves  luxuriously 
with  hot  sand,  to  race,  to  gambol,  or  to  loll 
on  the  turf  and  emulously  compare  sunburn, 
" peels,"  and  vaccination  scars. 

In  again  you  scamper,  and  the  pool  resumes 
its  cauldron  turmoil. 

The  sun,  from  his  new  station  low  in  the  west, 
sends  rays  slanting  in  beneath  the  trees  to  signal 
"Home." 

"Come  on,  I'm  goin'  out!"  says  Hen.  "You'd 
better,  too.     Your  lips  are  blue  as  the  dickens." 

"So  are  yours,"  you  retort.  " Ain't  they, 
kids!    Ain't  Hen's  lips  bluer'n  mine?" 

A  farewell  wallow,  and  out  you  wade  reluct- 
antly. One  by  one  out  wade  all.  Your  hands 
are  shriveled  with  long  soaking.  You  are 
water-logged.  There  is  sand  in  your  hair. 
Languidly  you  dress. 

With  Snoopie  and  Hen  and  Fat  and  Skinny 
and  the  others  —  a  company  now  chastened 
and  subdued  —  back  you  stroll  across  the  pas- 
ture, the  setting  sun  in  your  face,  the  robins 

[234] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

piping  their  even-song,  the  locusts  done  and 
quiescent,  katydids  tentatively  tuning  up  as  their 
successors.  The  sky  is  golden  in  the  west,  pink 
overhead,  blue  in  the  east.  Upon  the  clover 
the  dew  is  collecting,  annoying  o'erzealous  bees. 
Skinny  and  Nix  drop  off  to  the  left,  Snoopie  to 
the  right,  each  lining  his  straightest  course  for 
home. 

"Good-night,  kids!"  they  call  back. 

Now  in  the  village,  the  little  group  rapidly 
dwindles.  Presently  only  you  and  Hen  and 
Billy  remain. 

Billy  turns  in. 

At  his  gate  Hen  stops. 

The  next  gate  is  yours.  You  are  glad.  You 
are  tired  —  so  tired  —  so  very  limp  and  tired  — 
and  so  hungry! 


[235] 


THE  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  PICNIC 


THE  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  PICNIC 

TWAS  the  day  of  the  picnic  —  the  Baptist 
picnic.  You  yourself  were  not,  by  family 
persuasion,  a  member  of  that  denomination, 
but  the  Schmidts,  next  door,  were,  and  by  the 
grace  of  Hen,  your  crony,  you  were  enabled  to 
gain  admittance,  upon  occasion,  into  the  Baptist 
'bus. 

The  'bus  was  not  scandalized.  You  had 
been  in  it  before,  as  Methodist,  Congregation- 
alism Unitarian  —  what  not.  So  had  Hen. 
Only  a  few  little  girls  were  shocked,  and  gazed 
at  you  disdainfully. 

"You  ain't  a  Baptist!"  they  accused. 

"Neither's  Blanche  Davis!"  you  retorted, 
carrying  the  debate  into  the  enemy's  country. 
"I  guess  I've  got  as  much  right  here  as  she 
has!" 

"I  came  with  Lucy  Barrett,"  informed 
Blanche,  primly. 

"  An'  I  come  with  Hen  Schmidt.  His  father's 
a  deacon,  too!"  you  asserted. 

[239] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"Oh,  he  ain't  —  is  he,  Mr.  Jones?     He  ain't 

—  is  he?"  appealed  the  little  girls,  shrilly. 
Mr.  Jones,  beaming  with  long-suffering,  Sun- 
day-school-superintendent good  humor,   oblig- 
ingly halted. 

"Henry  Schmidt's  father  ain't  a  deacon,  is 
he?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  affirmed  Mr.  Jones, 
pleasantly. 

Thus  you  valiantly  maintained  your  position 

—  and  Hen's. 

When  you  and  Hen  had  pantingly  arrived  at 
the  rendezvous  you  had  found  yourselves  in  the 
midst  of  baskets  and  bustle.  The  baskets  gave 
forth  fascinating,  mysterious  clinks.  In  your 
individual  capacity  of  guest  you  had  brought 
no  basket  of  your  own,  but  you  had  helped  Hen 
carry  down  the  Schmidt  contribution,  and  you 
knew  of  what  it  spake  and  smelled,  and  you 
had  peeked  in  under  the  cover.  Besides,  Hen 
had  told  you,  in  detail. 

Clad  in  necessarily  stout  shoes,  but  quite 
superfluously  clean  waists,  you  and  he,  with 
the  basket  between,  had  hastened  to  the  place 
of  assembly. 

Other  boys  appeared.     Poor  indeed  was  that 

[240] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

wight  who  could  not  rake  up  a  Baptist  friend 
—  particularly  if  his  own  church  gave  picnics. 
Therefore,  behold,  as  at  the  millennium,  the 
creeds  of  your  world  united  to-day  under  one 
flag  —  which  happened  to  be  the  Baptist. 

Snoopie  Mitchell,  of  course,  was  there. 
Snoopie  usually  went  fishing  or  skating  on 
Sunday;  but  at  picnic-time  and  Christmas  even 
he  did  not  deny  the  comforts  of  the  church. 

"Hello!"  you  said. 

"Hello!"  said  Snoopie  nonchalantly.  "Aw, 
you  kids  are  too  late!" 

Snoopie  never  was  too  late.  He  had  the 
instincts  of  the  ranging  shark,  and,  moreover, 
perfect  freedom  to  obey  them. 

"Why?"  demanded  you  and  Hen  breath- 
lessly. 

"They  took  it  away.  Gee!  Two  freezers 
bigger'n  me!" 

"More'n  the  Methodists  had?"  you  inquired 
eagerly. 

"You  bet!"  affirmed  Snoopie. 

You  sighed  —  a  happy,  satisfied  sigh. 

The  passenger  'buses  arrived,  two  of  them. 
They  were  greeted  with  a  cheer,  and  scarcely 
had  the  gaunt,  rusty,  white  horses  of  the  fore- 

[241] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


most  one  swung  about  to  back  ere  into  it  you 
all  scrambled. 

You  and  Hen  promptly  plumped  down  at 
the  end  —  end  seats  and  the  seat  with  the  driver 
being  the  choice  ones. 

"Children!  Children!  Be  careful !"  ap- 
pealed the  superintendent,  mechanically.  Poor 
man,  already  he  had  done  a  hard  day's  work! 

As  well  might  he  have  cautioned  a  river 
running  down-hill.  Jostled  past  you  girls  and 
boys,  elbows  in  ribs,  shoulder  thrusting  shoulder, 
in  a  competition  that  recognized  no  sex.  Like 
lightning  the  hack  is  occupied  to  overflowing; 
packed  with  two  lines,  facing  each  other,  of 
flushed,  excited  children,  with  here  and  there 
a  flustered  matron;  you  and  Hen,  as  stated, 
holding  the  end  seats,  Billy  Lunt  (he  wasn't  a 
Baptist,  either)  up  with  the  driver,  but  Snoopie, 
crafty,  ragged  Snoopie,  hanging  on  at  the  steps! 

The  'bus  rolls  off.  You  all  shout  back  de- 
risively at  your  outstripped  associates. 

Father  had  darkly  hinted  that  you  should 
take  an  umbrella  and  rubber  boots,  and  spoken 
of  " total  immersion,"  whatever  that  might  be; 
but,  lo,  the  sky  is  cloudless,  the  morn  is  of 
sparkling  summer,  the  air  is  fresh,  everything 

[242] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


is  lovely,  the  town  is  behind  and  the  picnic 
before,  and  you  don't  care,  any  more  than  you 
know,  what  he  meant!  You  are  in  the  'bus; 
and  the  only  person  you  envy  is  Snoopie, 
perilously  clinging  to  its  rear. 

With  the  horses  at  a  trot  he  springs  on  and 
off,  drags  his  feet  or  sprints  behind,  and  is  con- 
tinually saying  "Lookee!"  while  he  performs 
some  new,  adroit,  impish  deed.  The  women 
gasp  and  exclaim  uOh!"  " I  wish  he  wouldn't!" 
and  "Mrs.  Miller,  can't  you  stop  him!"  Then 
somebody's  hat  blows  off  and  creates  a  diversion. 

Half  a  block  in  your  wake  is  the  other  'bus, 
and  occasionally  jogs  apace  a  carriage,  with 
suggestive  rattle  of  dishes  and  bulge  of  hamper. 

Your  vehicle  rumbles  over  a  creek  bridge  and 
slowly  rounds  a  curve. 

" I  see  it!  I  see  it!"  announces  Billy,  wrig- 
gling on  his  elevation. 

You  all  stretch  necks  to  "see  it,"  too.  Yes, 
there,  just  before,  in  the  woods  to  the  right,  are 
the  forms  of  the  earlier  invaders  —  the  good 
men  and  women  constituting  the  volunteer  band 
of  provision-arrangers. 

The  'bus  turns  to  the  roadside.  Issues  from 
the   driver  a   long  and   relieved   "Whoa-oa!" 

[243] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

But,  even  as  he  says  it,  you  and  the  other  boys 
are  out,  over  the  sides.  Under  the  fence  you 
scoot,  to  race,  madly  whooping,  up  the  wooded 
slope,  fearful  lest  you  are  missing  something. 
After  you  scamper,  more  timidly,  the  little  girls, 
and  last  of  all,  ungallantly  consigned  to  bring 
the  picnic  odds  and  ends,  toil  your  elders. 

The  'bus  rolls  back  to  town,  carrying  a  man 
or  so  delegated  to  get  inevitably  forgotten 
articles. 

Now  all  the  wood  is  riotous  with  scream  and 
shout.  It  is  a  wood  filled  with  possibilities. 
Early  somebody  discovers  a  garter-snake,  and 
at  the  rallying-cry  destruction  violently  descends 
upon  the  harmless  thing.  Immediately,  dan- 
gling from  the  end  of  a  stick,  it  spreads  con- 
fusion wherever  feminine  humanity  may  be 
encountered.  At  its  approach  the  little  girls 
squeal  and  run,  the  larger  girls  shriek  and  ex- 
postulate, and  the  various  mothers  shrink  and 
glare  indignantly.  The  superintendent  it  is 
who  boldly  interferes,  takes  the  limp  reptile, 
and  throws  it  away. 

"There!"  sigh  glad  onlookers. 

But  Snoopie  marks  its  fall,  and  presently 
recovers  it;  thereafter  to  carry  it  around  in  his 

[244] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

pocket,  intent  upon  sticking  it  down  unsuspect- 
ing comrades'  backs. 

In  the  ravine  is  the  shallow  creek.  As  a 
means  of  entertainment  the  creek  is  about  as 
good  as  the  dead  snake.  'Tis  jump  it  and 
rejump  it;  'tis  wade  it  with  shoes  on  and  'tis 
wade  it  with  shoes  off;  and  'tis  splash  far  and 
wide,  to  see  which  boy  shall  get  the  wetter. 

Milder  spirits  may  elect  to  search  for  "pretty 
flowers,"  or  "help  mamma,"  or  play  "Pussy 
Wants  a  Corner,"  and  "Ring  Around  a  Rosie," 
where  solicitous  eyes  might  fondly  oversee; 
where  busily  labor  and  perspire  the  superin- 
tendent and  assistants,  hanging  swings  and 
hammocks,  lifting,  opening,  and  unpacking; 
where  benignly  moves  the  minister,  diffusing 
unspoken  blessings.  But  you  and  yours  must 
have  more  strenuous  recreation.  So  already, 
when  word  is  transmitted  that  "they're  makin' 
the  lemonade,"  your  knickerbockers  are  torn 
from  shinning  up  trees,  your  waist  is  limp  from 
romping  through  the  creek,  and  your  face  is 
red,  and  scratched,  and  streaming,  and  dirty. 

You  are  having  fun. 

Lemonade!  Two  tubs  of  it,  in  the  middle 
of  each  a  lump  of  ice,  about  the  ice  floating 

[245] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


y 


disks  of  lemon,  and  a  thirsty  crowd  encircling 
all. 

"Be  careful,  children.  Let  the  little  girls 
drink  first,  boys.  My,  my!  That's  not  the 
way!"  cautioned  Mr.  Jones,  as,  the  supply  of 
tin  cups  proving  insufficient,  some  of  you 
evinced  a  disposition  to  "get  in  all  over." 

The  little  girls  politely  tripped  off,  wiping 
their  mouths  with  their  best  handkerchiefs. 
You  and  Hen  el  al.  lingered.  Eventually  the 
tubs  were  left  unguarded.  The  moment  seemed 
propitious  for  new  diversion. 

"Let's  see  who  can  drink  the  most!"  proposed 
Hen. 

The  idea  was  brilliant.  To  hear  was  to 
act. 

It  was  plunge  in  your  cup  and  gulp;  and 
plunge  it  in  and  gulp;  and  fail  not  to  throw  the 
residue  in  your  neighbor's  face.  Fast  and 
furious  waxed  the  play,  with  Snoopie  appearing 
to  be  sure  winner. 

"Aw,  you  ain't  drinkin'  it  all!  That  ain't 
fair!"  you  accused,  and  the  other  boys  joined  in. 

"Shut  up!  I  am,  too!"  replied  Snoopie, 
angrily;  and  proceeded  with  his  count:  "Four- 
teen." 

[246] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Distanced,  his  competitors  paused,  and  jeal- 
ously, but  half  admiringly,  watched. 

"Bo-oys!     Bo-oys!" 

The  gentle  soprano  voice  with  the  reproach- 
ful, shocked  inflection  made  you  drop  tin  cups, 
the  batch  of  you,  and  hastily  look. 

'Twas  the  minister's  wife.  In  power  she 
stood  above  the  superintendent,  even,  and  only 
slightly  below  the  minister  himself. 

"Why,  why!  You  mustn't  do  that!"  she 
objected,  bearing  down. 

Mustn't  you?  Well,  all  right;  there  was  lots 
else  to  do,  and,  soaked  without  and  within, 
reeking  of  lemonade,  you  withdrew  to  do  it. 

"Gee  —  I  drunk  fifteen!"  boasted  Snoopie, 
patting  his  stomach. 

He  proved  to  be  high  man.  Yourself  had  to 
your  score  only  the  modest  aggregate  of  ten. 

Behind,  at  the  scene  of  the  late  contest,  arose 
sounds  of  lamentation  and  dismay  over  the 
state  of  the  tubs. 

Stately,  mute,  impenetrable,  with  baffling  rag- 
carpet  covering  their  tops,  in  the  shade  stand 
the  two  ice-cream  freezers,  and  on  all  sides  of 
them  the  feet  of  you  and  your  cronies,  and  of 
the  little  girls  as  well,  have  well-nigh  worn  bare 

[247] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

the  woodland  sod.  But  now,  torn  away  by 
less  exalted  emotions,  you  and  Hen  revolve 
around  Mrs.  Schmidt's  tablecloth  spread  on 
the  ground  and  weighted  down  with  dishes. 

Here  is  to  be  your  station  at  dinner.  Other 
cloths  there  are,  spread  about,  but  Hen  recom- 
mends his  mother's.  There  will  be  a  family 
feeling,  and  less  chance  of  neglect. 

Drag  slower  and  slower  the  minutes.  Hen 
goes  foraging,  and  returns  gleefully  with  a  cooky 
apiece.  The  delicious  smell  of  sliced  tongue 
and  ham  and  boiling  coffee  permeates  the  air. 

"Henry,  if  you  and  John  don't  keep  out  from 
under  foot,  I'll  take  you  right  straight  home!" 
threatens  Mrs.  Schmidt,  exasperated. 

Other  women,  too,  lower  at  you. 

"Yes,  boys,"  chimes  in  the  superintendent; 
"run  away  and  play,  and  don't  bother  the 
people  getting  dinner.  When  we're  ready  we'll 
call  you." 

But,  oh,  dear,  supposing  something  should 
be  all  eaten  up  before  you  got  there! 

At  last,  at  the  very  last  —  as  the  French 
emphatically  express  it,  a  la  fin  des  fins  —  your 
rebuffs  are  over.  You  are  actually  bidden  to 
advance.     'Tis  barely  the  wink  of  an  eyelash, 

[248] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


but  'tis  enough;  and  before  a  word  is  spoken 
you  are  there,  the  two  of  you,  sitting  elbow  to 
elbow,  on  your  calves,  against  the  cloth :  greedy- 
eyed,  watery-mouthed,  faint-stomached. 

From  right  and  left  come  trooping  young  and 
old,  none  of  them,  save  one  or  two  couples  from 
the  Bible-class,  trooping  from  very  far.  They 
settle  like  pigeons  fluttering  down  to  corn. 
About  each  cloth  a  circle  is  formed.  Nobody 
is  homeless.  And  isn't  it  time  to  start  in? 
Alas!  not  yet. 

From  his  place  ("Mr.  Jones,  do  sit  down! 
You  look  tired  to  death.  Sit  right  here!"  has 
been  the  imploration,  and  he  has  yielded)  the 
superintendent  bobs  up  and  loudly  claps  his 
hands,  and  says:  "Sh!" 

"Sh!"  assist  sundry  whispers,  as  warning  to 
you  and  your  mates. 

It  is  the  blessing,  for,  as  Mr.  Jones  subsides, 
the  minister  rises. 

He  prays  long  and  fervently.  Out  of  the 
corners  of  your  eyes  you  continue  to  scan  sand- 
wich, and  cake,  and  jelly,  and  pickles,  while 
your  nose  wriggles  like  the  nose  of  an  inquiring 
rabbit.  You  wonder  why  the  minister  cannot 
quit;  but,  ignoring  every  good  stopping-point, 

[249] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


he  proceeds  on  and  on.  You  hear  Hen  groan 
with  pent-up  disgust.     You  slyly  groan  back. 

"Amen." 

It  has  come!  Mrs.  Schmidt's  glance  flashes 
rebuke  in  your  direction,  but  neither  you  nor 
Hen  cares.  High  swells  an  instant  chorus  of 
talk  and  rattling  staccato  of  dishes.  Hither  and 
thither  flit  busy  servers;  and,  behind  the  backs 
of  the  circle,  down  your  way  is  progressing  in 
solemn  state  a  huge  tray  of  sandwiches. 

You  watch  it  eagerly.  It  brushes  your  shoul- 
der. You  and  Hen  grab  together.  They  are 
bun  sandwiches,  with  cold  boiled  ham  between. 
Your  mouth  opens  against  yours,  and  your  teeth 
meet  through  it. 

"Yum,  yum!"  you  mumble  ecstatically  to 
Hen. 

"Yum,  yum!"  agrees  Hen. 

Come  other  sandwiches  —  tongue  and  beef 
and  potted  ham;  come  cold  fried  chicken  and 
pressed  veal  loaf;  come  jelly  —  several  kinds  — 
and  pickles,  sweet  and  sour.  Sometimes  you 
hesitate. 

"I  will  if  you  will,"  dares  Hen;  therefore  you 
generally  do. 

Comes  coffee,  and  more  lemonade;  comes  pie 

[250] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

—  apple,  lemon,  blueberry,  custard ;  comes  cake 

—  chocolate,     lemon-layer,    jelly-layer,     plain, 
frosted,  cocoanut,  spice,  angel-food. 

"Urn!  Urn!"  revels  Hen  at  intervals. 

"Um!  Urn!"  you  respond,  in  perfect  sym- 
pathy. 

Comes  ice  cream  in  " heaping"  saucers! 

Come  cookies  and  sweet  crackers,  ginger- 
bread, cream-puffs,  kisses  and  oranges. 

You  both  have  been  obliged  to  kneel  —  ex- 
panding, as  it  were,  from  your  sitting  posture. 
And  now  the  feast  is  done.  Vainly  you  view 
the  debris;  you  have  accomplished  marvels,  but 
you  can  do  no  more.  You  sigh,  and,  sucking 
an  orange,  reluctantly  you  stand.  You  waddle 
off,  feeling  fat  and  stuffy,  to  convene  with  the 
other  boys,  and  compare  notes. 

"Aw,  you  ought  to  been  at  our  table!"  claims 
Billy  Lunt.  "We  had  chocolate  cake  with 
chocolate  an  inch  thick  —  didn't  we,  Buck?" 

"Buck"  promptly  assents. 

"So'd  we!  So'd  we!"  retorts  Hen.  "An' 
we  had  jelly-cake,  an'  — " 

"So'd  we!"  inform  rivals,  bound  to  uphold 
the  honors  of  their  boards.     "An'  lemon  pie  —  " 

"An'  custard,  an'  — " 

[251] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"An'  pickled  peaches — " 

"Golly!  I'm  'bout  busted!"  chuckles  Billy, 
complacently. 

Standing  companionably  by,  Snoopie  harkens 
and  grins,  but  says  little.  Only  from  a  bulging 
pocket  he  extracts  another  orange  and  drills 
into  it.  One  may  be  certain  that  he,  at  least, 
has  missed  nothing. 

Prudence  might  dictate  a  period  of  quiescence 
as  a  tribute  to  digestion.  But  the  day  is  short, 
and  a  half  a  bun  skimming  into  your  midst  — 
that  is,  into  the  midst  of  the  group,  not  into 
your  own  midst,  where  it  would  have  hard  work 
to  find  lodgment  —  arouses  you  to  retaliation. 
Back  and  forth  and  across  fly  the  remnants 
from  the  various  tablecloths,  and  applause  greets 
every  hit.  Snoopie  introduces  a  popular  feature 
by  plastering  against  a  tree-trunk  a  fragment 
of  a  custard  pie.  Forthwith  custard  and  lemon 
pie  are  at  a  premium,  these  being  the  kinds  that 
stick.  Then,  interrupting  the  pleasant  pastime, 
charge  upon  your  ranks  horrified  witnesses, 
suddenly  awakening  to  the  crisis. 

"Boys!    Stop  it!    Stop  it  at  once !   The  idea!" 

Expostulating,  they  drive  you  all,  shame- 
faced but  sniggering,  from  the  premises.     You 

[252] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


leave  the  plot  looking  as  though  a  caisson  laden 
with  cartridges  of  lunch  had  exploded  there! 

The  principal  event  of  the  day  being  over, 
your  elders  relax  into  a  state  more  or  less 
lethargic.  The  women  sit  and  crochet  and 
chat.  The  minister  goes  to  sleep  with  a  hand- 
kerchief on  his  face,  and  even  some  of  your 
juniors  follow  suit  —  members  of  the  infant 
class  seeking  the  pillow  of  their  mothers'  laps. 
The  Bible-class  wanders  off  in  couples.  The 
superintendent,  only,  is  kept  active  by  demands 
of  "Swing  me,  Mr.  Jones;  please  swing  me!" 
from  the  little  girls. 

Naturally  the  inspiration  for  you  and  yours 
is  to  follow  the  Bible-class  couples  and  spy  upon 
them;  when  they  think  themselves  nicely  se- 
cluded and  comfortably  ensconced,  to  steal 
upon  them;  and  in  the  midst  of  their  innocent 
confidences  to  hoot  upon  them  (with  such  deli- 
cate insinuations  as  "Aw,  Mr.  Johnson  's  Miss 
Saxby's  beau!"  — or  "Say,  Miss  Lossing,  Mr. 
Pugsley  wants  to  kiss  you  i")  —  and  then  to  flee, 
riotously  giggling. 

It  is  four  o'clock.  Prolonged  shouts  from 
the  throats  of  the  superintendent  and  assistants 
echo  through  the  woods,  calling  together  the 

[253] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

stragglers.  The  'buses  have  arrived.  Home- 
going  must  be  accomplished  early,  on  account 
of  the  "  little  ones." 

All  right.  If  the  day  is  done,  another  day  is 
coming.  You  rush  down,  and  you  and  Hen 
again  secure  the  end  seats.  The  'bus  fills,  its 
load,  on  the  whole,  not  so  sprightly,  nor  so  enthu- 
siastic, nor  so  clean  as  in  the  morning. 

Snoopie  hangs  on  at  the  rear. 

The  driver  says  "Gid-dap!"  Somebody  re- 
plies with  "Whoa!"  "Whoa-oa!"  supplement 
a  score  of  voices.  To  frantic  encouragement 
descends  the  hill,  scurrying  as  if  from  Indians 
or  bears,  a  belated,  last  Bible-class  couple. 

"Gid-dap!"  once  more  urges  the  driver. 

The  'bus  moves.  You  yawn.  Hen  yawns. 
You  are  tired  and  sticky.  Hen,  also,  is  tired 
and  sticky. 

"Lookee!"  bids  Snoopie. 

He  throws  away  his  dead  snake;  his  pockets 
are  empty  again. 

Yet  in  the  depth  of  the  aftermath  you 
brighten.  Your  thoughts  travel  ahead.  The 
Presbyterians  are  to  have  their  picnic  next  week! 

"You  goin'?"  asks  Hen. 
'You  bet!"  you  reply  confidently. 
[254] 


THE  OLD  MUZZLE-LOADER 


THE  OLD  MUZZLE-LOADER 

THE  old  muzzle-loader  was  so  much  the 
taller  that  when  you  stood  opposed  to  it, 
only  by  a  series  of  hitches,  a  few  inches  at  a 
time,  could  you  extract  the  ramrod  from  the 
slot.  In  your  aiming  exercises  you  leaned  so 
far  backward  that  you  formed  almost  a  half 
circle.  The  stock  was  scarred,  the  hammer 
was  loose,  the  barrel  was  rusted  and  the  sight 
awry,  but  it  was  a  fine  gun;  yes,  a  fine  gun,  fit 
for  a  boy  to  worship. 

And  when,  with  father  coaching  you,  its 
barrel  firmly  supported  in  the  crotch  of  the 
apple  tree  and  its  butt  pressed  against  your 
throbbing  chest,  you  shut  your  eyes  and  jerked 
the  trigger,  as  you  picked  yourself  up  while 
invidious  spectators  gamboled  and  cheered,  with 
what  gusto  did  you  assert  that  "it  didn't  hurt  a 
bit,"  and  avowed  that  you  wanted  to  do  it 
again. 

[257] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

How  it  happened  that  here  you  were,  headed 
for  the  open  country  with  the  old  muzzle-loader 
hoisted  athwart  your  shoulder,  probably  no  one 
alive  remembers,  but  you  —  and  Hen  Schmidt, 
your  aider  and  abettor  as  accessory  after  the 
fact.  Dangling  against  your  right  knee  was  the 
powder  flask,  dangling  against  your  left  knee 
was  the  shot  flask,  and  the  two  banged  and 
rattled  as  you  walked.  In  one  trousers  pocket 
were  wads,  in  the  other  caps. 

"Lemme  carry  it?"  pleaded  Hen. 

You  refused. 

' *  Naw,  sir ! "  you  rebuked.  "  You  don't  know 
how." 

"  Just  to  that  big  tree,"  persisted  Hen. 

You  relented;  and  under  your  watchful  eye 
Hen  proudly  bore  the  ennobling  piece  to  the 
tree  adown  the  dusty  roadside.  Exactly  at  the 
tree  you  claimed  possession  again. 

To-day,  looking  back,  can  you  not  see  your- 
self, a  sturdy  little  figure  trudging  valorously 
onward,  with  the  two  flasks  swaying  and  jiggling 
and  the  old  gun  cutting  like  sin  into  your 
uncomplaining  flesh,  and  with  heart  so  buoyed 
by  the  glorious  present  that  it  refused  to  think 
on  the  dubious  future;  and   Hen,  scarcely  less 

[258] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

elate,  solicitous  to  relieve  you  of  your  burden, 
keeping  pace,  step  for  step? 

The  birds,  flitting  over  or  hopping  upon 
either  hand  along  your  route,  witnessed  and 
gaily  laughed.  Well  might  they  laugh,  because 
with  impunity.  Your  death-dealing  weapon 
was  not  loaded;  not  yet.  But  presently  you 
halt  and  in  an  angle  of  the  rail  fence  you  load, 
do  the  two  of  you,  yourself  operating,  while 
Hen,  keenly  critical,  at  each  movement  de- 
claims and  suggests. 

"Aw,  gee!  That  ain't  enough  powder!" 
scoffs  Hen.  "What  you  'fraid  of?  If  it  was 
mine,  you  bet  I'd  put  in  twice  as  much!" 

"I  guess  I  know,"  you  retort.  "Guess  I've 
seen  my  father  load  more  times  'n  you  ever 
have!     What  vou  want  to  do,  bust  it?" 

The  powder  is  dumped  into  the  muzzle,  the 
gun  being  propped  slantwise  so  that  you  may 
work  conveniently.  The  invincible  grains  fall 
in  a  tinkling  shower  through  the  black  cylinder. 
You  stuff  in  a  wad. 

"Here-     '  says  Hen.     "Lemme  do  it." 

You  ram  it  down,  and  Hen  rams  it  down. 
In  goes  the  shot,  No.  4,  nice  and  large.  You 
insert  the  final  wad.     You  ram,  and  Hen  rams. 

[259] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Look  out!"  you  warn  Hen,  who  edges  so 
close  as  to  joggle  you;  and  with  breathless  care 
you  press  upon  the  nipple  a  cap,  the  way  you 
have  seen  your  father  do,  and  you  lower  the 
protecting  hammer  over  it,  also  the  way  you 
have  seen  your  father  do.  Assisted  by  Hen 
you  restore  the  ramrod  to  its  groove.  You 
straighten  up.  You  are  ready.  You  shoulder 
arms. 

You  and  Hen  climb  the  fence  and  scale  the 
hill,  upon  whose  slope  begins  your  favorite 
patch  of  timber.  Making  sport  of  your  backs, 
along  the  fence  that  you  have  just  quitted 
scampers  a  chipmunk,  but  you  do  not  know. 
Your  thoughts  are  ahead. 

The  consciousness  that  your  gun  is  charged 
imbues  you  with  a  strange  thrill  of  importance. 
You  are  deadly.  Come  what  may,  lion,  bear, 
wildcat,  squirrel,  rabbit,  eagle,  owl,  partridge, 
you  are  prepared,  so  let  them  one  and  all  beware. 

You  and  Hen  talk  in  guarded  tones,  whilst 
your  four  eyes  rove  hither  and  thither,  greedy 
to  sight  prey.  But  under-foot,  stealthy  though 
you  fancy  your  advance,  rustle  the  dried  leaves, 
spreading  afar  the  news  of  your  passage;  and 
hushed  though  you  consider  your  voices,  they 

[260] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

penetrate  into  sharp  ears  attuned  to  catch  the 
slightest  alien  sound.  Eyes,  sharper  than  yours, 
widen  and  wait. 

You  would  give  the  world  to  see  a  rabbit  or  a 
squirrel.  You  have  just  as  much  chance  of 
seeing  a  rabbit  or  a  squirrel  as  you  have  of  seeing 
a  hippopotamus.     However,  it  doesn't  matter. 

Hist!     On  before  something  twitters. 

"There's  a  bird!" 

"Sh,  can't  you!     I  hear  him!" 

Cautiously  you  and  Hen  steal  forward,  tip- 
toeing over  crackling  leaf  and  twig,  your  gaze 
riveted  on  the  distance. 

"I  see  him!"  announces  Hen,  excitedly. 

"Where?"  you  whisper. 

"There  —  in  that  tree!  Now  he's  runnin' 
'round  the  trunk!  He's  a  woodpecker."  (Nat- 
uralists might  cavil  and  term  him  a  "warbler," 
but  just  the  same  he  acts  like  a  woodpecker!) 
"Can't  you  see  him?" 

Alas,  you  can't  —  at  least,  you  don't.  Hen 
cannot  abide  such  stupidity.  Besides,  the  thing 
is  liable  to  make  off. 

"Ain't  you  got  any  eyes?  Gee  whizz! 
Gimme  the  gun.     I  can  pop  him  from  here." 

Give    Hen    the    gun?    Well,    hardly!    You 

[261] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy- 
clutch  it  the  tighter,  and  strain  and  peer.    Now 
you  glimpse  him  —  a  tiny  chap  in  a  pepper-and- 
salt  suit,  busily  engaged  in  pecking  at  the  bark 
beneath  his  toes. 

"I  see  him!"  you  mutter  exultantly. 

You  stoop ;  Hen  stoops.  You  glide  up,  mak- 
ing service  of  covert  afforded  by  tree  and  bush, 
and  your  flasks  catch,  and  sometimes  you  step 
on  them.  Hen,  too,  glides,  just  behind,  imi- 
tating your  every  movement. 

The  hour  is  portentous,  but  the  dare-devil 
bird  braves  it  and  maintains  his  post  at  table. 
Possibly,  deceived  by  your  woodcraft  (as  you 
fondly  suppose),  he  is  oblivious  to  the  fact  that 
yard  by  yard  two  boys  are  drawing  closer  and 
closer.  You  are  breathing  hard,  and  to  your  rear 
pants   Hen,  for  the  advance  has  been  onerous. 

"G'wan  and  shoot!  He'll  fly  away,"  urges 
Hen,  hoarsely. 

Yes,  you  are  near  enough.  No.  4  shot  at 
fifteen  yards  ought  to  do  the  business  for  that 
chap.  You  slowly  settle  upon  your  knees,  be- 
hind the  tree  trunk  which  is  your  shelter,  and 
cock  your  piece.  At  the  click  the  "wood-' 
pecker"  for  an  instant  ceases  operations,  and 
flirts  his  tail  inquisitively. 

[262] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Darn  it  — you've  scared  him!"  you  accuse 
Hen,  who  shifts  and  squirms  at  your  back,  in 
attempts  to  secure  a  better  view.  Hen  holds 
himself  in  suspense,  apparently  well-nigh  suffo- 
cating with  the  effort.  You  bring  your  piece  to 
bear,  but  it  is  so  long  and  awkward  that  you 
are  being  worsted  in  the  struggle,  when  Hen 
eagerly  proposes: 

"Lay  it  on  my  shoulder!" 

You  recede  a  little,  and  Hen  wriggles  forward, 
the  transfer  being  accomplished  with  mingled 
fear  and  haste. 

Hen's  shoulder  is  rather  low  for  an  ideal  rest, 
but  you  may  not  complain.  You  sink  as  far 
as  possible,  and  aim.  The  muzzle  projects 
beyond  the  tree  trunk,  and  wavers  in  space. 
Beyond  the  space  is  your  suspicious  woodpecker, 
a  creature  of  the  most  unexpected  and  eccentric 
movements  imaginable.  He  never  stays  "put." 
Just  as  the  sight  approaches  him,  he  changes 
position ;  and  just  as  he  approaches  the  sight,  it 
changes.  A  conjunction  of  the  two  seems 
hopeless. 

"Why  don't  you  shoot?  What's  the  matter 
with  you?"  gasps  Hen. 

You  shut  both  eyes.     Boom! 

[263] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

Backward  you  keel,  head  down,  heels  up, 
and  the  gun,  jumping  from  Hen's  shoulder, 
rasps  along  the  tree  to  the  ground. 

"Did  I  hit  him?  Where'd  he  go?"  you  cry 
frantically,  staggering  to  your  feet. 

Hen  is  bounding  toward  the  tree  whereon 
the  impudent  bird  had  been  foraging.  You 
wonder  that  the  tree  yet  remains,  but  there  it  is, 
to  all  appearances  as  hale  as  ever. 

"Did  I  hit  him?"  you  repeat,  seizing  the 
gun  and  following. 

"I  dunno.  But  he  flew  off  kind  of  funny," 
reports  Hen. 

"  Find  any  blood  ?  I  bet  I  wounded  him  like 
everything,  anyhow!"  you  assert.  The  wood- 
pecker must  have  bled  internally,  for,  search 
as  you  two  might,  no  tell-tale  splashes  of  gore 
could  be  discovered.  There  were  even  no 
feathers.  You  scanned  the  tree,  but  upon  close 
inspection  it  still  persisted  in  acknowledging  no 
damage,  despite  the  frightful  leaden  deluge  to 
which  you  had  subjected  it. 

"Aw,  you  missed  him!  Aw,  gee!"  suddenly 
bemoans  Hen,  overcome  by  disappointment. 

"Didn't  neither.  He  flew  just  when  I  shot, 
and  I  couldn't  stop!"  you  reply,  defensively  — 

[264] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

unmindful  of  the  discrepancy  evident  between 
your  denial  and  your  excuse. 

"If  you'd  let  me  shoot  I'd  have  got  him," 
declares  Hen,  unplacated. 

You  proceed  to  load.  Hen  moodily  holds 
aloof  from  helping  you  ram,  and  you  regain  in 
some  measure  your  lost  caste  only  when  you 
offer  him  the  privilege  of  the  ammunition 
flasks.  These  he  dons,  and  by  this  little  touch 
of  diplomacy  you  smooth  over  his  ill  humor. 

Together  you  and  he  scout  along  the  crispy 
ridge,  ever  on  the  qui  vive  for  another  mark, 
beast  or  bird.  Crows  scold.  Ah,  if  you  could 
but  bag  a  crow!  But  they  always  flap  off  too 
soon.  Bluejays  jeer.  You  would  stop  that 
mighty  quick  if  they  would  give  you  a  chance. 
But  they  don't.  Even  woodpeckers  fight  shy 
of  that  mimical,  albeit  not  unerring,  gun. 

The  gun  aforesaid  is  now  growing  so  heavy 
that  the  fact  cannot  be  ignored.  You  balance 
it  on  one  portion  of  your  anatomy,  and  on 
another;  yet  the  more  it  weighs  and  the  sharper 
wax  its  angles,  and  you  can  secure  no  lasting 
ease. 

"I'll  carry  it,"  volunteers  Hen,  prompt  to 
take  advantage  of  your  significant  manoeuvers. 

[265] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Uh-uh,"  you  decline  stanchly.  You  com- 
promise by  suggesting,  in  a  moment,  with  off- 
hand bluffness:  "Say,  let's  sit  down  a  while. 
There's  nothin'  up  here  to  shoot." 

"Naw,"  responds  Hen,  "I'll  tell  you  — let's 
shoot  woodchucks!" 

The  idea  appeals.  After  "shooting"  wood- 
peckers, "shooting"  woodchucks  ought  to  prove 
a  pleasing  diversion. 

With  the  gun  as  angular  as  ever,  but  with 
your  hunting  instincts  piqued  anew,  you  fol- 
lowed while  Hen  led  to  the  nearest  woodchuck 
hole:  that  burrow  under  the  stump  on  the  side 
of  the  hill,  across  from  Squire  Lucas's  pasture; 
a  matchless  lair  for  an  old  'chuck  such  as  was 
the  occupant,  whence  he  could  sally  forth  and 
wallow  in  the  squire's  clover  to  his  heart's  and 
stomach's  content. 

Many  a  covetous  glance  had  the  boys  of 
town  and  country  cast  toward  this  burrow; 
many  a  fruitless  attack  had  silly  dogs  made 
upon  its  unresponsive  portals;  from  time  to  time 
fresh  earth  about  the  entrance  popularly  indi- 
cated that  the  'chuck  was  enlarging  and  re- 
modeling his  apartments,  and  it  was  commonly 
believed  that  he  had  tunneled  clear  through  the 

[266] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


hill:  laughing  to  scorn  the  foes  that  vainly  com- 
passed him  about,  he  lived  and  fattened,  and 
spoiled  as  much  clover  as  he  could. 

With  bated  breath  and  gingerly  tread,  you 
and  Hen  sneaked  to  ambush  under  cover  of  the 
zigzag  rail  fence  that  diagonally  skirted  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  before  the  woodchuck's  dwelling. 
Ah,  how  many  other  boys  had  lurked  there,  for 
hope  springs  eternal. 

You  trained  your  grim  weapon  upon  the 
region  of  the  hole.  You  allowed  Hen  to  have 
a  squint  adown  the  trusty,  and  rusty,  barrel. 

"Gee!  I  bet  that'll  pepper  him!"  com- 
mended Hen;  and  laying  aside  his  flasks  he 
equipped  himself  with  a  rock  in  each  hand,  for 
aiding  in  the  proposed  job. 

Very  peaceful  and  cozy  was  it  there,  against 
the  fence,  with  Indian  Summer  (in  retrospect, 
those  falls  were  all  Indian  Summer)  around 
you,  the  warm  sun  shining  upon  you,  and 
the  warm  grass  and  pungent  weeds  an  elastic 
cushion  underneath.  It  was  an  agreeable 
change,  to  surrender  your  gun  to  the  fence,  and 
relax. 

"Sh!"   whispered   Hen,   angrily,   when  you 
sought  to  straighten  a  leg. 

[267] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"I  don't  believe  he's  comin'  out,"  you  whis- 
pered back. 

"Yes,  he  will,"  averred  Hen. 

"Maybe  he  doesn't  stay  there  any  more," 
you  hazarded  anxiously. 

"Course  he  does!" 

"Maybe  he's  gone  to  sleep  for  the  winter, 
though." 

"Sh!  Shut  up!  He  won't  come  out  as  long 
as  you're  talkin'!" 

You  subsided,  and  with  cheekbone  glued  to 
the  gunstock,  and  eyes  ferociously  glaring  along 
the  barrel,  at  the  hole  beyond,  you  expectantly 
bided  the  first  rash  movement  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  'Chuck. 

In  the  meantime,  what  of  that  woodchuck? 
Lured  afield  by  the  pleasant  weather,  from  his 
predatory  tour  he  was  leisurely  returning  — 
halting  now  to  nuzzle  amidst  the  stubble,  now 
to  scratch  —  for  a  mid-day  nap  within  his  sub- 
terrene  retreat.  He  waddled  into  a  dried  ditch 
and  out  again,  slipped  through  his  private 
wicket  in  a  boundary  hedge,  and  gradually 
working  up  the  slope  was  approaching  his 
home,  on  the  side  opposite  to  your  rail  fence, 
when    Hen,    suddenly  espying    him,    was    as- 

[268] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


toimded  into  the  yelp:  "There  he  is!  Shoot! 
Shoot!" 

Startled  into  immobility,  the  woodchuck 
stared  about  with  quivering  whiskers  and 
bulging  eyes.     Boys! 

As  in  a  dream,  you  vaguely  saw  a  squat, 
furry  shape,  a  cleft,  vibrant  nose  and  two  broad, 
yellow  teeth;  and  with  the  remembrance  that 
your  gun  was  pointing  in  the  general  direction 
of  this  combination,  you  desperately  tugged  at 
the  trigger.  Your  sole  thought  was  to  "shoot, 
shoot,"  the  quicker  the  better.  The  report 
was  the  thing. 

But  no  report  came.  The  trigger  would  not 
budge. 

"Darn  it !  You  old  fool,  you !  You  ain't  got  it 
cocked !"  shrieked  Hen,  grabbing  at  your  weapon. 

With  a  whistle  of  decision  the  woodchuck 
bolted  for  sanctuary.  He  clawed,  he  slid,  he 
sprawled,  all  at  once.  Hen  frenziedly  delivered 
both  rocks.  The  'chuck,  at  the  mouth  of  his 
burrow,  in  a  second  more  would  have  swung  on 
the  pivot  of  his  four  short,  stout  little  legs  and 
have  whisked  in  like  a  brindled  streak,  when, 
having  succeeded  in  cocking  your  piece,  you 
blindly  let  go  —  bang ! 

[269] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


The  butt  slammed  you  under  the  chin,  knock- 
ing your  teeth  together  upon  your  lower  lip. 
You  noted  it  not. 

"We  got  him!    We  got  him!" 

Thus  Hen,  tumbling  over  the  rail  fence,  was 
wildly  bellowing  —  with  a  pardonable  extension 
of  the  subject  pronoun. 

"  Hurrah!" 

You  were  on  your  feet  in  a  twinkling,  and 
were  dashing  in  the  wake  of  Hen,  up  the  incline, 
midway  of  which,  just  below  the  stump,  on  his 
side  lay  the  woodchuck,  limp  and  still. 

Hen  circumspectly  reached  and  stirred  him 
with  the  tip  of  a  toe;  then,  emboldened  into  the 
attitude  of  victor,  recklessly  kicked  him. 

"He's  dead!" 

"Je-rusalem!  I  should  say  he  was!"  you 
agreed,  poking  the  inert  mass.  "  Wasn't  that 
a  dandy  shot,  though?" 

"You  bet!"  praised  Hen. 

And  so  it  was  —  considering  the  attendant 
circumstances. 

Gloatingly  you  and  Hen  examined  your  prize, 
inch  by  inch,  investigating  him  from  his  two 
front  teeth  to  his  scraggly  tail.  Most  of  all  did 
you  gloat  upon  the  blood,  striking  proof  of  your 

[270] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


valor,  and  ere  you  had  finished  you  well-nigh 
could  have  drawn  a  diagram  of  the  shot  holes. 

'Twas  established  that  the  aim  had  been  per- 
fect (yourself  demonstrating  to  Hen  precisely 
what  had  been  your  course  of  action),  that  the 
gun  had  shot  tremendously,  and  that  the  wood- 
chuck  was  a  very  prodigy  of  size  and  strength. 

Poor  'chuck!  He  had  made  his  last  foray, 
long  enough  had  he  dared  to  live,  and  now, 
despite  his  cunning,  he  had  fallen  to  a  boy  who 
shut  both  eyes  before  firing. 

Homeward,  is  it?  Certainly!  Nothing  is 
left  to  be  gained  on  the  trail.  With  the  stride 
of  conquerors,  you  and  Hen  march  through  the 
village  —  you  with  gun  and  ammunition  flasks, 
Hen  with  the  woodchuck,  which  he  has  appro- 
priated, dangling  by  the  tail. 

"Well,  well!  Where  did  you  get  that  fellow?" 
query  the  men. 

"Oh,  John  and  me  shot  him,"  explains  Hen. 

"Crickety,  but  ain't  he  a  big  one!  How'd 
you  get  him?"  query  the  boys. 

"We  shot  him!  And  he  was  runnin',  too!" 
boasts  Hen. 

"Aw,  you  found  him!" 

"Didn't  neither  —  did  we,  John ?    You  come 

[271] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


here  and  I'll  show  you  the  shot  holes  in 
him!" 

So,  side  by  side,  you  and  Hen  gallantly 
stepped,  with  the  visible  tokens  of  your  calling, 
homeward  bound.  At  the  entrance  to  your 
alley,  however,  Hen  inclined  to  lag;  and  as  the 
back  yard  was  being  traversed  he  fell  further 
behind.  Your  own  pace  was  slower  and  less 
confident,  now. 

Hen  flung  you  the  woodchuck. 

"I've  got  to  go,"  he  maintained.  "You  can 
take  him." 

The  back  door  opened,  and  mother  stood  and 
gazed  upon  you,  even  as  Hen  was  discreetly 
retiring. 

"John!"  she  said.     "What  have  you  been 

doing?" 

Beneath  its  powder  grime  your  face  paled. 
At  once  you  began  to  realize  how  your  lip  was 
puffing,  and  how  your  shoulder  was  aching, 

"We  were  huntin'  woodchucks,"  you  qua- 
vered. 

"The  idea!"  said  mother. 

"We  got  one,  too,"  you  offered,  in  piteous 
defense. 

"Mercy!"   exclaimed  mother,   at  the  sight. 

[272] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


"Leave  it  right  there,  and  come  straight  into 
the  house!" 

"Ya-a-a!"  bantered  Hen,  gleefully,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  fence.     "You're  goin'  to  ketch 

it!" 

Here  the  door  closed  behind  you,   shutting 
you  in  with  your  shame. 


[273] 


A    BOY'S    LOVES 


A    BOY'S    LOVES 


IN  the  utmost  beginning  of  things  —  in  that 
time  when  roosters  were  very  large,  and 
geese  were  very  fierce,  and  only  mother  could 
avert  the  thousand  perils,  heal 
the  thousand  wounds  —  ex- 
isted a  mythical  partner 
established  in  family  annals 
as  "Your  Little  Sweetheart." 

"Annie?  Don't  you  re- 
member Annie !  Why,  she  was 
Your  Little  Sweetheart.  You 
used  to  play  together  day  in 
and  day  out.  It  was  so  cute 
to  see  you!" 

But  no.  You  may  catch 
here  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon, 
there  an  echo  of  a  laugh, 
yet,  try  as  you  will,  you  may 
not  recall  her.  Evidently  when  Your  Little 
Sweetheart   Annie   was   put  away  along  with 

[277] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


dresses  and  curls,  she  was  put  away  so  far  that 
she  was  lost  forever. 

What  space  of  months,  or  of  years,  elapses, 
you  cannot  tell.  Nevertheless,  suddenly  you 
do  witness  yourself,  still  of  age  most  immature, 
(you  recollect  that  somewhere  in  this  period 
you  were  miserably  spelled  down  on  "fish"), 
laying  votive  offerings  upon  the  desk  of  your 

First  Love,  a  girl  with  brown 
eyes  and  rounded,  rosy  cheeks. 
These  offerings  are  in  the 
shape  of  bright  pearl  but- 
tons and  carnelian  pebbles. 
The  transfer  requires  much 
breathless  daring.  Down  the 
aisle  of  the  school-room  you 
march,  your  gift  tightly  clutched  in  your  hand, 
which  swings  carelessly  by  your  side.  Past  her 
seat  you  scuttle,  and,  without  a  single  glance,  you 
leave  the  treasure  upon  the  oaken  top,  beneath 
her  eyes.  Away  you  hurry,  affrighted,  ashamed, 
apprehensive,  but  hopeful.  Presently,  blushing, 
from  your  seat  you  steal  a  look  across  at  her. 
She  smiles  roguishly.  The  offering  is  gone.  It 
is  accepted;  for  she  holds  it  up  that  you  may 
see.     And  you   grin   back,   as  red  as  a  beet, 

[278] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

while  your  heart,  exultant,  goes  thumpity, 
thumpity,  thumpity. 

In  company  with  another  boy,  who  must  have 
been  a  rival,  you  descry  yourself  hanging  about 
her  gate,  turning  somersaults,  wrestling,  and 
performing  all  kinds  of  monkey-shines,  in  the 
brazen  fancy  that  she  may  be  peeking  out  of  a 
window  and  admiring  you.  She  is  framed,  for 
an  instant,  by  the  pane.  You  and  he  scamper 
up  and  deposit  in  plain  view  —  you  upon  the 
right  gate-post,  he  upon  the  left  —  a  handful 
apiece  of  hazelnuts.  Then  the  pair  of  you 
withdraw  to  a  discreet  distance  and  wait.  Out 
she  trips,  and  gathers  in  your  handful;  but  his 
she  disdainfully  sweeps  off  upon  the  ground. 

He  whooped  in  contempt  and  swaggered  in 
derision ;  and  you  —  you  —  what  was  it  you  did  ? 
Alas!  the  picture  is  cut  here  abruptly,  as  by  a 
knife;  the  First  Love  vanishes,  and  the  Second 
Love  succeeds. 

She  is  the  minister's  daughter,  a  gentle,  win- 
some little  lass,  not  at  all  like  the  saucebox  of 
the  brown  eyes  and  the  rich  cheeks.  In  the 
case  of  this  Second  Love  there  seems  to  have 
been  no  studied  wooing,  no  sheepish  bribery  by 
pearl  buttons  and  carnelians  and  nuts.    You 

[279] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

fall  in  with  each  other  as  a  matter  of  course. 
In  playing  drop-the-handkerchief  you  nearly 
always  favor  her,  and  she  you ;  and  when  either 
favors  some  one  else  the  understanding  between 
you  is  perfect  that  this  is  done  merely  for  the 
sake  of  appearances. 

Your  mutual  affection  is  of  the  telepathic 
order.  Others  in  the  party  may  romp  and 
squeal  and  shout  in  the  moonlight,  but  you  and 
she  sit  together  on  the  wheelbarrow,  and  look 
on  in  tolerant,  eloquent  silence. 

In  games  you  have  occasionally  kissed  just 
the  tip  of  her  ear,  and  that  was  sufficient. 
Teasing  companions  may  cry:  "Aw,  kiss  her! 
Fraidie!  fraidie!  That  ain't  kissin'!"  But  you 
know  she  knows,  and  smacks  —  those  boisterous 
smacks  current  in  the  realm  —  are  superfluous. 

In  addition  to  the  kissing  games,  and  the 
state  of  exaltation  upon  the  wheelbarrow,  you 
are  able  to  conjure  up  yourself  in  another  role : 
at  the  frozen  river's  edge,  strapping  on  her 
skates  —  your  first  remembered  gallantry. 

Assailed  by  the  shrill  scoffings  of  your  rude 
comrades,  under  the  refining  influence  of  love 
you  kneel  before  her  as  she  is  struggling  with  a 
stiff  buckle.     Like  to  the  manner  born,   she 

[280] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


permits  you  to  assist.  Then  —  then  you  skated, 
you  and  she,  for  each  other's  sake  enduring  all 
the  pursuing  gibes?  This  point  is  not  clear. 
You  may  not  further  linger  with  her,  the  min- 
ister's daughter,  your  Second  Love,  for  in  a  hop, 
skip,  and  jump  you  are  worshiping  at  the  skirts 
of  the  Third  Love. 

Her  eyes  are  black  —  large  and  black.  You 
are  desperately  smitten.  You  live,  move,  and 
have  your  being  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  fervor. 

Her  name  is  Lillian.     Somewhere,  somehow, 
you  have  run  upon  the  lines      |j 
of  Tennyson: 

"  Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 
Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me; 

She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 
Cruel  little  Lilian." 


~, 


'r/jr^Z^-?iP 


They  appeal  to  you.  They 
touch  a  spot  which  seems 
not  to  be  reached    bv  even 

J 

Oliver  Optic  or  "The  Gorilla 

Hunters."     You   must   have  poetry,   and   you 

memorize  them,  and  repeat  them  over  and  over 

[28O 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

to  yourself,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  she,  your 
inspiration,  is  neither  airy,  fairy,  nor  flitting,  but 
of  substantial,  buxom  proportions. 

The  Third  Love,  with  her  bold  black  eyes 
and  her  generous  plumpness,  is  not  so  sub- 
missive as  was  that  gentle  Second  Love.  She 
flouts  you.  When  the  mood  is  upon  her,  she 
makes  faces  at  you.  At  a  party,  when  you 
stammer: 

"  The  stars  are  shining  bright; 
May  I  see  you  home  to-night?  " 

as  like  as  not  she  turns  up  her  nose,  or  else  she 
tosses  her  head  and  snaps  ungraciously:  "Oh, 
I  s'pose  so!" 

You  never  are  sure  of  her;  yet  always  you 
find  yourself  meekly  at  her  apron-strings. 

You  willingly  go  to  church  (you  conceive  that 
your  family  does  not  know  why,  but  in  this  you 
are  much  mistaken),  because  she  sits  in  front  of 
you.  What  a  blissful,  comfortable  feeling  you 
have,  with  her  safely  installed  near  at  hand, 
twitching  her  short  braids  not  more  than  three 
feet  before  your  happy  nose! 

When  the  pew  is  filled  to  overflowing,  then, 
sometimes,  you  are  crowded  out  into  her  pew. 

[282] 


When  You  Were  a  Bo 


1 


Embarrassed  of  mien,  you  decorously  slide  into 
your  new  location,  she  receiving  your  presence 
with  a  shrug  and  a  sniff,  and  you  growing  redder 
and  redder  as  you  imagine  that  all  the  congre- 
gation must  be  reading  your  secret. 

In  a  moment  she  darts  at  you  a  sly  glance 
(the  coquette!  How  vastly  superior  she  is  to 
you  in  the  wiles  of  love!),  and  you  swell  and 
swell,  until  it  seems  to  you  that  you  are  towering 
into  the  raftered  heights  above. 

And  at  the  conspicuousness  thus  entailed  you 
blush  yet  deeper. 

Ah,  her  folks  are  about  to  leave  town;  she  is 
to  move  away  I  The  news  comes  with  sickening 
directness,  and  on  top  of  the  announcement  she 
pitilessly  asserts  that  she  is  glad.  You  muster 
courage  to  declare  that  you  are  "going  to  write." 
She  flirts  her  bangs,  and  retorts  grudgingly:  "/ 
don't  care." 

Which  is  all  the  good-by  that  you  get. 

Beyond  childish  notes,  you  never  have  written 
to  a  girl;  and  what  a  bothersome  time  this  first 
letter  gives  you!  The  chief  trouble  lies  in  the 
start.  "Dear  Friend,"  which  appears  to  be  the 
address  sanctioned  by  society,  is  too  common- 
place and  formal;  "Dear  Lillian"  may  err  in 

[283] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


the  other  direction,  she  is  ridiculously  touchy. 
You  want  something  unique,  and  in  your  re- 
searches you  encounter  "Cherie" —  where, 
history  reveals  not. 

"Cherie"  sounds  nice;  you  do  not  know  what 
it  means,  but  all  the  better,  for  consequently  it 
is  finely  ambiguous;  and,  proud  of  your  origi- 
nality, you  take  it.     Once  started,  you  occupy 

four  pages,  in  your  scrawl- 
ing script,  with  what  you 
deem  to  be  clever  badinage. 
Badinage  is  the  main  con- 
versational stock  in  trade  of 
girl-and-boy  days. 

Principally  you  rail  her 
about  a  certain  youth  of 
your  town  with  whom  she 
used,  to  your  torment,  to 
run  races.  You  hope  that  she  will  reply  in 
a  manner  to  convey  that  really  she  despised 
that  other  chap  and  is  longing  for  you. 

Two  weeks  of  waiting.  Then,  one  noon, 
your  father,  with  an  arch  remark,  fishes  from 
an  inside  pocket  a  little  square  envelope,  and 
passes  it  to  you,  at  the  dinner-table.  The 
dinner-table,  of  all  public  places! 

[284] 


£jj&dl= 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


You  endeavor  calmly  to  receive  it  with  a 
cursory  glance ;  but  you  deposit  it  in  your  jacket 
well  aware  that  your  trembling  frame  emanates 
confusion. 

Having  bolted  your  dinner,  you  retire  to  the 
barn  loft  to  revel  in  the  missive.  The  double 
sheet  of  miniature  stationery  has  a  rosebud 
imprinted  at  the  top. 

Alas!  underneath  are  the  thorns. 

Friend  Will:  No,  I  don't  have  George 
Brown  to  run  races  with  any  more,  but  I  have 
somebody  lots  better,  and  we  run  races  every 
night.  Don't  you  wish  you  knew  who  it  was, 
smartie  ? 

Even  yet  the  lines  rankle.  They  but  indicate 
the  tenor  of  the  whole  letter  —  a  letter  from 
which  you  failed,  no  matter  how  earnestly  you 
pored  over  it,  to  obtain  one  grain  of  comfort. 

You  try  her  again,  with  another  clumsy  essay 
at  wit.  Answer  never  ccmes,  and  for  a  while 
you  sneak  about  afraid  that  the  truth  will  leak 
out,  and  you  be  made  a  butt  by  your  school- 
mates. 

The  queen  is  dead!    Live  the  queen!    This 

[285] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Fourth  Love  is  a  "new  girl,"  a  stranger  who 
one  morn  dawns  upon  your  vision  in  the  school- 
room. She  is  an  adorable  creature,  with  blue 
eyes,  golden  hair,  and  a  bridling  air  that  chal- 
lenges your  attention.  With  joy  you  learn,  at 
home,  that  your  folks  know  her  folks;  and  when 
your  mother  proposes  that  you  go  with  her  to 
make  a  friendly  call,  so  that  "the  little  girl 
won't  get  lonesome  for  want  of  acquaintances," 
you  accede  unhesitatingly. 

You  are  presented  at  court,  and,  sitting  with 
her  upon  the  sofa,  do  your  best  to  be  enter- 
taining while  the  elders  chat  about  "help"  and 
church.  You  grasp,  from  her  sprightly  re- 
marks, that  she  is  well  accustomed  to  boy 
admirers.  She  speaks  of  her  "fellow"!  She 
writes  to  him!  He  "felt  awful  bad"  to  have 
her  leave!  Beside  hers,  your  experience  in  the 
ways  of  the  world  —  particularly  boy-ways  and 
girl-ways,  mingled  -  -  appears  pitifully  meager, 
and  beneath  her  assertions  and  giggling  sallies 
you  are  ofttimes  ill  at  ease. 

Impressed  with  her  value,  you  depart,  escort- 
ing your  mother;  and  that  night,  before  you  go 
to  sleep,  you  firmly  resolve  to  win  this  girl  or 
perish. 

[286] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


The  Fourth  Love  resolves  into  a  sad  thing  of 
mawkish  sentiment.  You  are  not  given  to 
mooning  or  spooning.     You  are  too  healthy. 


Drop-the-handkerchief,  clap-in  and  clap-out, 
post-office  —  these  tumultuous  kissing  games, 
open  and  aboveboard,  are  the  alpha  and  omega 
of  the  caresses  in  your  set.  However,  the  new 
girl  instils  another  element, 
hitherto  foreign  to  the  so- 
cial intercourse. 

To-day  you  recall,  with 
great  vividness,  that  winter 
evening  before  supper,  when 
you  lingered,  on  your  way 
home,  in  the  front  hall  at 
her  house,  planning  with 
her  to  go  skating. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  dark!"  she  piped  suddenly, 
can't  see  you  at  all." 

"And    I  can't    see    you,    either,"    you 
sponded. 

Silence. 

"Where  are  you?"  she  whispered. 

"  Oh,  I'm  here  by  the  door.    Are  you  'fraid  ?  " 
you  bantered  innocently. 

Silence. 

[287] 


"I 


re- 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

"S'posing  you  kissed  me!  Wouldn't  that  be 
awful!"  she  tittered  in  pretended  horror. 

But  you  —  you  summoned  your  chivalry,  and 
went  forth  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  you 
had  not  taken  advantage  of  her  helplessness. 

This  was  the  end.  From  that  evening  dated 
her  coldness.  Another  boy  jumped  in  and 
supplanted  you.  You  encountered  them  to- 
gether, and  they  looked  upon  you  and  laughed. 
He  informed  you  that  she  said  you  "  hadn't  any 
sense."  You  sent  back  a  counter-accusation, 
which  he  gladly  reported.  But  enough;  away 
with  this  Eve.  What  becomes  of  her  you  are 
able  to  decipher  not.  Let  us  consider  the  Fifth 
Love. 

Her  you  acquire  deliberately,  with  purpose 
aforethought,  so  to  speak.  A  love  is  now  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  you,  and  casting  about,  you 
hit  upon  the  girl  across  the  street.  You  have 
known  her  virtually  all  your  life.  She  is  not 
very  pretty;  she  is  just  a  plain,  jolly,  wholesome 
lassie,  who  is  continually  running  over  to  your 
house,  and  with  whom  you  are  as  free  as  with 
your  own  sister;  but  she  will  do. 

Forthwith  you  begin  a  campaign.  You  walk 
home  with  her;  you  lend  her  books;  you  take 

[288] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


her  riding  —  a  real,  ceremonious  ride,  and  not, 
as  formerly,  merely  a  lift  down-town ;  you  strive 
as  hard  as  you  can  to  enthuse  over  her  and 
remark  beauties  in  her.  And  she,  meantime  a 
little  flustered  and  astonished  at  your  unwonted 
assiduousness,  accepts  your  crafty  attentions 
and  frankly  confides  to  your  sister  that  she 
wishes  she  had  a  brother. 

Unsuspicious  girl!  She  treats  you  with  a 
camaraderie  which  should  warn  you,  but  which 
only  proves  your  undoing. 

Mindful  of  the  lesson  gained  at  the  hands  of 
the  Fourth  Love,  she  the  sentimental,  you  re- 
solve that  you  will  not  be  classed,  in  this  present 
instance,  as  having  "no  sense."  Accordingly, 
one  evening,  upon  parting  with  the  Fifth  Love 
at  her  gate,  you  baldly  propose  —  well,  you 
blurt  awkwardly: 

"Let's  kiss  good  night." 
With  what  scorn  she  spurns  the  suggestion! 
Then,  while  your  ears  are  afire  and  you  hang 
your  head,  she  administers  a  severe,  virtuous 
lecture  upon  the  impropriety  of  an  act  such  as 
you  mention. 

"  But  lots  of  boys  and  girls  do  it,"  you  hazard. 
She  does  not  believe  you;  and,  anyway,  she 

[  289  ] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


never  would.  And  she  packs  you  home. 
You  trudge  across  the  street,  angry,  irritated, 
abashed,  uncertain  as  to  whether  she  was 
hoaxing  you  or  whether  she  was  sincere. 
Girls  are  the  darndest  creatures! 
Evidently  here  closes  the  episode  of  the  Fifth 
Love.  It  was  but  natural  that  thereafter  you 
should    be    rather    disconcerted    when    in    her 

presence;  and  although  she 
might  act  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  you  (plagued  un- 
mercifully by  your  sister) 
»M;  /  could  not  forget. 


And  the  Sixth  Love  ?  Yes, 
she  followed,  with  scarce  a 
decent  interval,  hard  upon 
the  exit  of  the  all  too  high-minded  Fifth. 
Maybe  it  was  in  a  spirit  of  pique  that  you 
sought  her.  Whatever  the  preliminary  circum- 
stance, regard  yourself  eventually  head  over 
heels  again,  immersed  in  the  current  of  a  pas- 
sion equaled  only  by  your  affair  with  that 
Third  Love  — "cruel  little  Lilian." 

This  Sixth  Love,  too,  has  black  eyes  and  an 
engaging  plumpness.  Black  eyes,  apparently, 
are  the  eyes  most  fatal  to  you.     For  the  Sixth 

[290] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


Love  you  would  unflinchingly  die,  if  life  without 
her  were  the  alternative;  and  you  picture  to 
yourself  the  manner  in  which  she  would  mourn 
(you  hope)  when  you  are  lying  cold  and  still, 
with  just  your  white  face  showing,  in  the  family 
parlor. 

No   matter   how   circuitous   it   makes   your 
route,  going  and  coming  you 
always  manage   to  pass  her 
house. 

You  wonder  if  she  is  proud 
of  you  because  you  can  throw 
a  curve.  You  would  like  to 
have  her  see  that  you  are 
strong,  and  skilled  in  all  the 
exercises  to  which  boys  are 
heir.  You  want  to  be  her 
ideal,  her  knight.  Some 
times  you  suspect  that  she 
does  not  thoroughly  appreciate  your  prowess 
and  good  points,  for  she  prates  of  other  boys 
who  do  so  and  so,  whereas  you  can  easily  do 
as  much  and  more. 

Now,  whether  or  not  it  was  due  to  the  snake- 
curves  (every  boy  is  positive,  soon  or  late,  that 
he  can  throw  a  snake-curve),  looking  back  you 

[291  ] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

behold  yourself  possessed  at  last  of  this  maiden 
of  your  choice.  Of  course  no  word  of  love  has 
been  uttered  between  you.  That  would  be  too 
silly  and  theatrical,  almost  morbid ;  furthermore, 
it  is  unnecessary.  She  has  shyly  confessed  to 
you  that  she  " likes"  you,  and  this  is  sufficient. 
You  generously  refrain  from  urging  her  beyond 
this  maiden  admission. 

Aye,  't  is  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the 
view!  You  have  been  so  accustomed  to  the 
excitement  of  the  chase  that  with  idleness  you 
wax  restive.  The  Sixth  Love  verges  upon  being 
a  nuisance.  Her  black  eyes,  beaming  for  you 
alone,  pall  upon  you.  You  grow  callous  toward 
her.  You  tire  of  always  having  her  choose  you 
at  parties;  you  tire  of  her  eternal  assumption  of 
proprietorship  over  you;  you  wish  that  she 
would  not  come  so  much  to  see  your  sister,  and 
thrust  herself  upon  you  in  your  home. 

And  you  set  out  to  shake  her  off;  you  skip 
by  the  back  door  as  she  enters  by  the  front; 
you  avoid  her  at  parties;  you  show  her,  in  a 
dozen  ways,  that  you  do  not  fancy  her  any  more. 

Poor  anxious,  forsaken  Sixth  Love !  It  is  she 
who  turns  the  wooer;  it  is  she  who  passes  and 
repasses  your  house;  it  is  she  who  haunts  your 

[292] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


steps,  hoping  that  she  may  catch  a  glimpse  of 
you.  Regardless  of  the  fact  that  you  yourself 
so  often  have  played  this  game,  you  remain 
obdurate.  Finally  pride  rises  to  her  rescue,  and 
she  sends  notice  that  she  " hates  you." 

"Pooh!  Who  cares!"  you  sniff,  with  a  curl 
of  the  lip. 

Thus  lapses  behind  you  the  Sixth  Love;  and 
although  you  have  a  faint  vision  of  her  parading, 
to  meet  your  eyes,  your  most  despised  enemy, 
whom,  in  bravado,  she  had  immediately  adopted, 
memory  indicates  that  you  were  unaffected  by 
the  sight,  save  to  sneer,  and  that  already  the 
Seventh  Love  was  engrossing  your  attention. 

For  there  was  a  Seventh  Love,  and  an  Eighth, 
and  more  besides,  to  constitute  a  long  train  of 
wee,  innocent  heart-troubles  as  evanescent  as  a 
dream,  but  at  their  time  just  as  real;  until  from 
this  series  of  shallow,  dancing  ripples  of  Boy's 
Love,  lo!  one  day  you  suddenly  emerged  upon 
the  deep  ocean  of  Man's  Love,  and  anchored  in 
the  quiet  haven  where  She  awaited  —  She,  the 
gracious  embodiment  of  the  best  in  these  her 
girlish  predecessors. 


[293] 


NOON 


NOON 

AFTER  all,  it  is  no  fun  posing  at  being  a 
man.  It  is  not,  as  you  would  inform  the 
other  boys,  the  pleasant  sinecure  that  it  is  cur- 
rently presumed  to  be,  amongst  your  kind. 
The  picture  has  more  depth  than  appears  at 
the  distance.  As  you  approach,  you  note  only 
the  surface  tints;  but  when  you  have  arrived, 
then  begin  to  unfold  aspects  previously  quite 
unsuspected. 

So  now,  having  had  experience,  you  fain 
would  turn  back,  and  doffing  for  all  time  those 
starchy,  heavy,  strait-jacket  garments  which 
you  have  mistakenly  donned,  you  would  re- 
sume the  free-and-easy  blouse  and  knicker- 
bockers and  tattered  brim,  and  would  rejoin 
your  gay  brethren  of  school  and  vacation.  You 
have  learned  your  lesson,  and  you  will  leave 
them  no  more. 

So  be  it.     But  alas,  unavailingly  you  stop  on 

[297] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

your  way  down-town,  beside  the  vacant  lot 
where  the  other  boys  are  playing  ball,  and  look 
wistfully  in  upon  them.     None  yells: 

"Come  on,  Jocko.     You're  tenth  fielder." 

Once  the  ball  rolls  your  way.  You  toss  it 
back  —  toss  it  awkwardly,  somehow,  proving 
that  you  are  out  of  practice.  However,  you 
can  limber  up  right  speedily.  You  have  been 
away,  they  should  know. 

"Aw,  you're  out!  You're  out!  You  are  too! 
Ask  that  man.     He's  out,  ain't  he,  Mister?" 

You  wait  for  "that  man,"  wherever  he  may 
be,  to  reply.  But  you  yourself  are  the  sole 
spectator,  and  you  gaze  right  and  left,  puzzled. 

"He's  out  — ain't  he!" 

You!  It  is  you  to  whom  they  are  appealing! 
You  nod,  confusedly. 

"Ya-a-a!    The  man  says  you're  out!" 

The  man !  The  word  gives  you  a  little  shock. 
They  are  styling  you  "man"!  A  sensation  of 
disappointment  and  surprise  sweeps  through 
you;  here  you  are,  Rip  Van  Winkle,  whom 
nobody  knows.  If  only  these  your  former 
cronies  might  see  through  and  recognize  what 
lies  behind  this  thin  disguise,  they  would  realize 
that  you  really  are  but  ten,  and  one  of  them. 

[298] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


All  in  the  broad  sun  the  other  boys  are  "goin' 
fishin'."  It  is  a  prime  day.  Your  being  tingles 
for  the  poise  of  the  trusty  old  pole  upon  your 
shoulder,  and  the  feel  of  the  fat  bait-can  in 
your  jacket  pocket.  Hang  business!  You  re- 
pudiate its  tyranny.  That  " engagement"  may 
importune,  in  vain.  The  perch  are  running, 
the  kids  are  "all  catchin'  'em,"  " fishin'"  is 
" dandy."  Hurrah!  The  old-time  wanderlust 
is  stirring  in  your  veins.  You  will  go.  But  — 
something  holds  you  back.  It  will  not  be  much 
fun  to  fish  alone.  Something  tells  you  that 
even  though  you  "fire"  your  shoes  and  stockings 
and  strip  to  shirt  and  trousers,  and  boldly  enter 
the  fray,  still  will  you  be  an  alien,  and  looked 
upon  askance.  You  are  a  "man,"  and  perch 
and  bullheads  are  not  for  the  likes  of  you. 

Nevertheless,  you  can  try.  There  hastens 
Hen  —  or,  at  least,  one  who  might  be  Hen  — 
pattering  down  the  street,  all  accoutered  for  the 
ranks  of  joy  and  rivalry. 

"Goin'  fishin'?"  you  demand  bluffly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Sir!"  In  a  word  has  he  relegated  you  to 
your  place.  He  knows  you  —  knows  that  you 
have  no  fish-worms  in  your  pocket,  and  that  to 

[299] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

match  his  mighty  pole  you  have  only  a  paltry 
jointed  "rod." 

He  pauses  impatiently.  He  has  little  time 
to  waste  with  you. 

"Any  good?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Irksomely  respectful,  now  with  a  wriggle  he 
is  off,  onward  into  his  magic  realms,  leaving 
you  to  gaze  after,  chastened,  chagrined. 

Oh,  this  hideous  disguise  —  this  iron  meta- 
morphosis which  wizard  Time,  the  inexorable, 
has  laid  upon  you!     There  is  no  dropping  it. 

You  turn  to  Nature;  surely  Nature  has  the 
acumen  to  recognize  that  you  have  grown  not 
at  all,  save,  perhaps,  in  stature.  But  the  sun 
burns,  the  rain  wets,  the  snow  chills  —  each 
uncompromising  and  austere.  The  pond  that 
once  stretched  away  like  an  ocean  shrinks  and 
shallows  at  your  coming,  till  you  can  almost 
step  from  bank  to  bank;  the  once  limitless  wood, 
as  wild  and  as  romantic  as  the  Carpathians, 
mischievously  contracts  so  that  you  can  see 
through  from  side  to  side ;  the  highroad  is  dusty, 
and  the  paths  refuse  to  lead,  but  are  finished 
in  a  stride.  Everything  conspires  to  remind 
you  that  you  are  foreign,   Brobdingnagian,  a 

[3°°] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 

personage  apart,  and  that  too  late  have  you 
faced  about. 

To  the  pleasures  and  to  the  favors  that  were 
you  have  forfeited  the  "Open,  sesame!" 

You  may  not  reinstate  yourself  by  the  com- 
pany that  you  keep,  for  the  company  of  old  — 
where  is  it?  Vanished;  changed,  like  yourself; 
resistlessly  urged  on  and  ever  on  by  the  current 
which  there  is  no  stemming.  Hen  is  a  "man" 
—  he  runs  a  grocery  store.  Billy  Lunt  is  a 
"man" --and  an  M.D.,  to  boot.  "Fat"  Day 
is  a  "man"  —  even  an  alderman.  "Snoopie" 
Mitchell,  aye,  the  independent,  envied  Snoopie, 
whom  naught,  you  believed,  could  coerce,  is  a 
"man"  —  for  sometimes  you  are  whirled  along 
behind  his  engine.  They  all  seem  to  glory  in 
their  estate  and  its  attributes.  And  to  them, 
you  are  a  "man." 

Exists  only  one  authority  to  support  your 
quest  of  boyhood;  only  one  heart,  besides  your 
own,  which  apparently  would  be  glad  to  have 
you  again  in  blouse  and  knickerbockers;  and 
to  her  you  are  still  a  boy,  with  the  freckles  con- 
cealed, merely,  by  that  pointed  beard  at  which 
she  gently  rails  even  in  her  pride.  Mother! 
You  can  depend  upon  mother,  as  of  yore.     She 

[301  ] 


When  You  Were  a  Boy 


is  no  older,  herself;  she  is  the  same.  Mother 
never  changes.  You  are  no  older,  yourself; 
you  are  the  same.  Let  the  other  boys  call  you 
"man"  and  say  "sir";  let  sun  and  rain  and 
snow,  and  pond  and  wood  and  path,  deny  you 
their  one-time  hospitality.  To  all  the  world 
without  you  may  be  a  "man,"  but  to  mother 
you  are  her  "boy." 

Yet  Time,  forsooth,  wrests  even  this  anchor- 
age from  you.  Comes  an  hour  when,  confronted 
by  the  inevitable,  helpless  in  its  grip,  unrecon- 
ciled even  in  your  resignation,  you  dully  stand 
by  a  bedside  and  wait  —  wait  —  wait. 

Suddenly  the  eyes  open  and  look  up  into 
yours  with  understanding.  The  graying,  wrin- 
kled face  faintly  smiles. 

"What  a  great  big  boy  you  are  getting  to  be, 
Johnny,"  she  murmurs,  in  vague  surprise. 

That  is  all.  She  is  gone,  and  with  her  departs 
your  last  hold  upon  the  things  that  were.  Your 
morning  is  passed  forever.  It  is  noon.  You 
must  turn  away,  irrevocably  the  man. 

THE   END 


[3°2] 


THE   POET 
MISS  KATE  AND  I 


BY 

MARGARET  P.  MONTAGUE 

Handsomely  Decorated  and  Illustrated.    Net,  $1.50 
Postage,  10  cents 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  the  charm  of 
this  mountain  tale  with  its  flashes  of 
humor,  its  intimate  touches  of  nature, 
and  its  delicate  love  story.  It  is  an 
idyl.  Xot  only  is  the  story  an  ex- 
ceptionally charming  one  in  itself, 
but  the  book  is  one  of  the  most  at- 
tractive of  the  season  in  point  of 
manufacture.  The  binding  and  fron- 
tispiece in  rich  color,  the  page  decora- 
rations  in  green,  and  the  numerous 
illustrations,  fit  the  book  admirably. 

THE   BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 

33-37  East  17th  Street,  New  York 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

AND 

THE  CRICKET  ON  THE 
HEARTH 

BY 

CHARLES  DICKENS 

With  Introduction  and  Illustrations  in  Color  and 
Line,  by  George  Alfred  Williams.     4to,  $2.00 

Mr.  Williams  is  best  known  to  the  pub- 
lic as  the  artist  of  "Ten  Boys  from 
Dickens  "  and  "  Ten  Girls  from  Dick- 
ens." His  interpretation  of  the  men 
and  women,  and  the  abandonment  of 
grotesque  caricatures  for  the  portrayal 
of  the  more  human  side  of  the  char- 
acters, marks  a  new  era  in  Dickens 
illustrations. 

The  book  is  printed  in  two  colors,  hand- 
somely bound,  and  is  the  most  attrac- 
tive edition  of  the  popular  Dickens 
Christmas  Books  which  has  yet  ap- 
peared. 

THE    BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 

33-37  East  17th  Street,  New  York 


Lexi  you  v.rtre   a  boy 

I 

M13739 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


mmmm 


wllmL 


JMH&aKa 


yiiiip 

iiliL 


Illlll 


"•:■■■■■•'•'     ';  •'■■ 


War 


■ 


H 

In 


